GIFT  OF 

'SR      • 


Educ  I)ept, 


AMERICANS  ALL 


STORIES  OF   AMERICAN 
LIFE  OF  TO-DAY 


EDITED  BY 

BENJAMIN   A.  HEYDRICK 

Editor  "Types  of  the  Short  Story,1'  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 


EDUCATION  DEPT. 

COPYRIGHT,     1920,     BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACK   AND    HOWE ,    INC. 


PRINTED    IN    THE    U.    8.    A.    BY 

THE    QU1NN    A    BODEN    COMPANY 

RAHWAY.     N.    <|. 


ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 

For  permission  to  reprint  the  stories  in  this  volume,  acknowl 
edgement  is  made  to  the  owners  of  the  copyrights,  as  follows: 

For  "  The  Right  Promethean  Fire,"  to  Mrs.  Atwood  R.  Martin 
and  Doubleday,  Page  &  Company. 

For  "  The  Land  of  Heart's  Desire,"  to  Messrs.  Doubleday,  Page  & 
Company. 

For  "  The  Tenor,"  to  Alice  I.  Bunner  and  to  Charles  Scribners' 
Sons. 

For  "  The  Passing  of  Priscilla  Winthrop,"  to  William  Allen  White 
and  The  Macmillan  Company. 

For  "  The  Gift  of  the  Magi,"  to  Messrs.  Doubleday,  Page  &  Com 
pany. 

For  "  The  Gold  Brick,"  copyright  1910,  to  Brand  Whitlock  and  to 
The  Bobbs,  Merrill  Company. 

For  "  His  Mother's  Son,"  to  Edna  Ferber  and  the  Frederick  A. 
Stokes  Company. 

For  "  Bitter-Sweet,"  to  Fannie  Hurst  and  Harper  &  Brothers. 

For  "  The  Riverman,"  to  Stewart  Edward  White  and  Doubleday, 
Page  &  Company. 

For  "  Flint  and  Fire,"  to  Dorothy  Canfield  Fisher  and  Messrs. 
Henry  Holt  &  Company. 

For  "The  Ordeal  at  Mt.  Hope,"  to  Mrs.  Alice  Dunbar,  Mrs. 
Mathilde  Dunbar,  and  Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  &  Company. 

For  "  Israel  Drake,"  to  Katherine  Mayo  and  Messrs.  Houghton 
Mifflin  Company. 

For  "The  Struggles  and  Triumph  of  Isidro,"  to  James  M. 
Hopper. 

For  "The  Citizen,"  to  James  F.  Dwyer  and  the  Paget  Literary 
Agency. 


683186 


PREFACE 

In  the  years  before  the  war,  when  we  had  more  time  for 
light  pursuits,  a  favorite  sport  of  reviewers  was  to  hunt  for 
the  Great  American  Novel.  They  gave  tongue  here  and  there, 
and  pursued  the  quarry  with  great  excitement  in  various  direc 
tions,  now  north,  now  south,  now  west,  and  the  inevitable 
disappointment  at  the  end  of  the  chase  never  deterred  them 
from  starting  off  on  a  fresh  scent  next  day.  But  in  spite  of 
all  the  frenzied  pursuit,  the  game  sought,  the  Great  American 
Novel,  was  never  captured.  Will  it  ever  be  captured?  The 
thing  they  sought  was  a  book  that  would  be  so  broad,  so 
typical,  so  true  that  it  would  stand  as  the  adequate  expres 
sion  in  fiction  of  American  life.  Did  these  tireless  hunters 
ever  stop  to  ask  themselves,  what  is  the  Great  French  Novel? 
what  is  the  Great  English  Novel?  And  if  neither  of  these 
nations  has  produced  a  single  book  which  embodies  their 
national  life,  why  should  we  expect  that  our  life,  so  much  more 
diverse  in  its  elements,  so  multifarious  in  its  aspects,  could 
ever  be  summed  up  within  the  covers  of  a  single  book? 

Yet  while  the  critics  continued  their  hopeless  hunt,  there 
was  growing  up  in  this  country  a  form  of  fiction  which  gave 
promise  of  some  day  achieving  the  task  that  this  never-to-be 
written  novel  should  accomplish.  This  form  was  the  short 
story.  It  was  the  work  of  many  hands,  in  many  places.  Each 
writer  studied  closely  a  certain  locality,  and  transcribed  faith 
fully  what  he  saw.  Thus  the  New  England  village,  the  west 
ern  ranch,  the  southern  plantation,  all  had  their  chroniclers. 
Nor  was  it  only  various  localities  that  we  saw  in  these  one-reel 
pictures;  they  dealt  with  typical  occupations,  there  were 
stories  of  travelling  salesmen,  stories  of  lumbermen,  stories 
of  politicians,  stories  of  the  stage,  stories  of  school  and  college 


vi  PREFACE 

days.  If  it  were  possible  to  bring  together  in  a  single  volume 
a  group  of  these,  each  one  reflecting  faithfully  one  facet  of 
our  many-sided  life,  would  not  such  a  book  be  a  truer  picture 
of  America  than  any  single  novel  could  present? 

The  present  volume  is  an  attempt  to  do  this.  That  it  is 
only  an  attempt,  that  it  does  not  cover  the  whole  field  of  our 
national  life,  no  one  realizes  better  than  the  compiler.  The 
title  Americans  All  signifies  that  the  characters  in  the  book 
are  all  Americans,  not  that  they  are  all  of  the  Americans. 

This  book  then  differs  in  its  purpose  from  other  collections 
of  short  stories.  It  does  not  aim  to  present  the  world's  best 
short  stories,  nor  to  illustrate  the  development  of  the  form 
from  Roman  times  to  our  own  day,  nor  to  show  how  the  tech 
nique  of  Poe  differs  from  that  of  Irving:  its  purpose  is  none 
of  these  things,  but  rather  to  use  the  short  story  as  a  means 
of  interpreting  American  life.  Our  country  is  so  vast  that 
few  of  us  know  more  than  a  small  corner  of  it,  and  even  in 
that  corner  we  do  not  know  all  our  fellow-citizens;  differences 
of  color,  of  race,  of  creed,  of  fortune,  keep  us  in  separate 
strata.  But  through  books  we  may  learn  to  know  our  fellow- 
citizens,  and  the  knowledge  will  make  us  better  Americans. 

The  story  by  Dorothy  Canfield  has  a  unique  interest  for 
the  student,  in  that  it  is  followed  by  the  author's  own  account 
of  how  it  was  written,  from  the  first  glimpse  of  the  theme  to 
the  final  typing  of  the  story.  Teachers  who  use  this  book 
for  studying  the  art  of  short  story  construction  may  prefer  to 
begin  with  "  Flint  and  Fire  "  and  follow  with  "  The  Citizen," 
tracing  in  all  the  others  indications  of  the  authors'  methods. 

BENJAMIN  A.  HEYDRICK. 

NEW  YORK  CITY, 
March,  1920. 


CONTENTS 


I.    IN  SCHOOL  DAYS 

THE  RIGHT  PROMETHEAN  FIRE    George  Madden  Martin        3 
Sketch  of  George  Madden  Martin 16 

II.    JUST  KIDS 

THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE     Myra  Kelly     ...       21 
Sketch  of  Myra  Kelly 37 

III.  HERO-WORSHIP 

THE  TENOR        .       .       .       .     H.  C.  Bunner       .       .      41 
Sketch  of  H.  C.  Bunner 54 

IV.  SOCIETY  IN  OUR  TOWN 

THE  PASSING  OF  PRISCILLA 

WINTHROP      ....     William    Allen    White      59 
Sketch  of  William  Allen  White 73 

V.    A  PAIR  OF  LOVERS 

THE  GIFT  OF  THE  MAGI         .     O.    Henry       .       .       .      79 
Sketch  of  O.  Henry -.86 

VI.    IN  POLITICS 

THE  GOLD  BRICK     .       .       .     lBrand  Whitlock   .       .       91 
Sketch  of  Brand  Whitlock in 

VII.    THE  TRAVELLING  SALESMAN 

His  MOTHER'S  SON         .       .     Edna  Ferber         .       .     117 
Sketch  of  Edna  Ferber 130 

VIII.    AFTER  THE  BIG  STORE  CLOSES 

BITTER-SWEET    ....     Fannie  Hurst        .       .     135 
Sketch  of  Fannie  Hurst 166 

IX.    IN  THE  LUMBER  COUNTRY 

THE  RIVERMAN        .       .       .     Stewart  Edward  White     173 
Sketch  of  Stewart  E.  White 185 

X.    NEW  ENGLAND  GRANITE 

FLINT  AND  FIRE       .       .       .     Dorothy   Canfield        .     191 
How  "  FLINT  AND  FIRE  " 

STARTED  AND  GREW     .       .     Dorothy    Canfield         .     210 
Sketch  of  Dorothy  Canfield 221 

XI.    DUSKY  AMERICANS 

THE  ORDEAL  AT  MT.  HOPE       Paul  Laurence  Dunbar    227 
Sketch  of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 249 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 


XII.    WITH  THE  POLICE 

ISRAEL  DRAKE   ....     Katherine  Mayo   .       .     255 
Sketch  of  Katherine  Mayo 273 

XIII.  IN  THE  PHILIPPINES 

THE  STRUGGLES  AND  TRIUMPH 

OF  ISIDRO  DE  LOS  MAESTRos      James  M.  Hopper      .     279 
Sketch  of  James  M.  Hopper 295 

XIV.  THEY  WHO  BRING  DREAMS  TO  AMERICA 

THE  CITIZEN     ....     James  F.  Dwyer  .       .     299 
Sketch  of  James  F.  Dwyer 318 

XV.  LIST  OF  AMERICAN    SHORT  STORIES 321 

Classified  by  locality 

XVI.  NOTES  AND  QUESTIONS  FOR  STUDY 325 


IN  SCHOOL  DAYS  : '"' 


Are  any  days  more  rich  in  experiences  than  school  days? 
'.T;h%  day,  oWe :  first  '.enters  school,  whether  it  is  the  little  red 
'scnoolhbuse  'or  We  b,ig  brick  building  that  holds  a  thousand 
fibtp'tJLtjr-^k'ui  dyy'.marks  the  beginning  of  a  new  life.  One  of 
'tfie  best  records  in  fiction  of  the  world  of  the  school  room  is 
called  EMMY  Lou.  In  this  book  George  Madden  Martin 
has  traced  the  progress  of  a  winsome  little  maid  from  the  first 
grade  to  the  end  of  high  school.  This  is  the  story  of  the  first 
days  in  the  strange  new  world  of  the  school  room. 


THE  RIGHT  PROMETHEAN  FIRE 

BY 

GEORGE  MADDEN  MARTIN 

EMMY  Lou,  laboriously  copying  digits,  looked  up.  The  boy 
sitting  in  line  in  the  next  row  of  desks  was  making  signs  to 
her. 

She  had  noticed  the  little  boy  before.  He  was  a  square  little 
boy,  with  a  sprinkling  of  freckles  over  the  bridge  of  the  nose 
and  a  cheerful  breadth  of  nostril.  His  teeth: were,  wide  apart, 
and  his  smile  was  broad  and  constant.  tNTc(.  that  Emmy- 
Lou  could  have  told  all  this.  She  only  knew  thaMo -her ;  Ifce. 
knowledge  of  the  little  boy  concerning  the  things  peculiar  -to 
the  Primer  World  seemed  limitless. 

And  now  the  little  boy  was  beckoning  Emmy  Lou.  She  did 
not  know  him,  but  neither  did  she  know  any  of  the  seventy 
other  little  boys  and  girls  making  the  Primer  Class. 

Because  of  a  popular  prejudice  against  whooping-cough, 
Emmy  Lou  had  not  entered  the  Primer  Class  until  late.  When 
she  arrived,  the  seventy  little  boys  and  girls  were  well  along 
in  Alphabetical  lore,  having  long  since  passed  the  a,  b,  c, 
of  initiation,  and  become  glibly  eloquent  to  a  point  where  the 
1,  m,  n,  o,  p  slipped  off  their  tongues  with  the  liquid  ease  of 
repetition  and  familiarity. 

"  But  Emmy  Lou  can  catch  up,"  said  Emmy  Lou's  Aunt 
Cordelia,  a  plump  and  cheery  lady,  beaming  with  optimistic 
placidity  upon  the  infant  populace  seated  in  parallel  rows  at 
desks  before  her. 

Miss  Clara,  the  teacher,  lacked  Aunt  Cordelia's  optimism, 
also  her  plumpness.  "  No  doubt  she  can,"  agreed  Miss  Clara, 
politely,  but  without  enthusiasm.  Miss  Clara  had  stepped 

3 


4  AMERICANS  ALL 

from  the  graduating  rostrum  to  the  schoolroom  platform,  and 
she  had  been  there  some  years.  And  when  one  has  been 
there  some  years,  and  is  already  battling  with  seventy  little 
boys  and  girls,  one  cannot  greet  the  advent  of  a  seventy-first 
with  acclaim.  Even  the  fact  that  one's  hair  is  red  is  not 
an  always  sure  indication  that  one's  temperament  is  sanguine 
also. 

So  in  answer  to  Aunt  Cordelia,  Miss  Clara  replied  politely 
but  without  enthusiasm,  "  No  doubt  she  can." 

Then  Aunt  Cordelia  went,  and  Miss  Clara  gave  Emmy  Lou 
a  desk.     And  Miss  Clara  then  rapping  sharply,  and  calling 
some   small   delinquent  to   order,   Emmy   Lou's   heart  sank 
"••Wijhin  nje/.J  \:\  •  • 

'Now  Miss  Clara '-s.  tones  were  tart  because  she  did  not 
:  ':&hQw^hat£ofcdeYwit{i  this  late  comer.    In  a  class  of  seventy, 
spare  time  is  not  offering  for  the  bringing  up  of  the  back 
ward.     The  way  of  the  Primer  teacher  was  not  made  easy 
in  a  public  school  of  twenty-five  years  ago. 

So  Miss  Clara  told  the  new  pupil  to  copy  digits. 

Now  what  digits  were,  Emmy  Lou  had  no  idea,  but  being 
shown  them  on  the  black-board,  she  copied  them  diligently. 
And  as  the  time  went  on,  Emmy  Lou  went  on  copying  digits. 
And  her  one  endeavor  being  to  avoid  the  notice  of  Miss 
Clara,  it  happened  the  needs  of  Emmy  Lou  were  frequently 
lost  sight  of  in  the  more  assertive  claims  of  the  seventy. 

Emmy  Lou  was  not  catching  up,  and  it  was  January. 

But  to-day  was  to  be  different.  The  little  boy  was  nodding 
and  beckoning.  So  far  the  seventy  had  left  Emmy  Lou  alone. 
As  a  general  thing  the  herd  crowds  toward  the  leaders,  and 
the  laggard  brings  up  the  rear  alone. 

But  to-day  the  little  boy  was  beckoning.  Emmy  Lou  looked 
up.  Emmy  Lou  was  pink-cheeked  and  chubby  and  in  her  heart 
there  was  no  guile.  There  was  an  ease  and  swagger  about 
the  little  boy.  And  he  always  knew  when  to  stand  up,  and 
what  for.  Emmy  Lou  more  than  once  had  failed  to  stand  up, 


THE  RIGHT  PROMETHEAN  FIRE  5 

and  Miss  Clara's  reminder  had  been  sharp.  It  was  when  a  bell 
rang  one  must  stand  up.  But  what  for,  Emmy  Lou  never 
knew,  until  after  the  others  began  to  do  it. 

But  the  little  boy  always  knew.  Emmy  Lou  had  heard  him, 
too,  out  on  the  bench  glibly  tell  Miss  Clara  about  the  mat,  and 
a  bat,  and  a  black  rat.  To-day  he  stood  forth  with  confidence 
and  told  about  a  fat  hen.  Emmy  Lou  was  glad  to  have  the 
little  boy  beckon  her. 

And  in  her  heart  there  was  no  guile.  That  the  little  boy 
should  be  holding  out  an  end  of  a  severed  india-rubber  band 
and  inviting  her  to  take  it,  was  no  stranger  than  other  things 
happening  in  the  Primer  World  every  day. 

The  very  manner  of  the  infant  classification  breathed  mys 
tery,  the  sheep  from  the  goats,  so  to  speak,  the  little  girls  all 
one  side  the  central  aisle,  the  little  boys  all  the  other — and  to 
over-step  the  line  of  demarcation  a  thing  too  dreadful  to 
contemplate. 

Many  things  were  strange.  That  one  must  get  up  sud 
denly  when  a  bell  rang,  was  strange. 

And  to  copy  digits  until  one's  chubby  fingers,  tightly  grip 
ping  the  pencil,  ached,  and  then  to  be  expected  to  take  a 
sponge  and  wash  those  digits  off,  was  strange. 

And  to  be  told  crossly  to  sit  down  was  bewildering, 
when  in  answer  to  c,  a,  t,  one  said  "  Pussy."  And  yet  there 
was  Pussy  washing  her  face,  on  the  chart,  and  Miss  Clara's 
pointer  pointing  to  her. 

So  when  the  little  boy  held  out  the  rubber  band  across  the 
aisle,  Emmy  Lou  took  the  proffered  end. 

At  this  the  little  boy  slid  back  into  his  desk  holding  to 
his  end.  At  the  critical  moment  of  elongation  the  little  boy  let 
go.  And  the  property  of  elasticity  is  to  rebound. 

Emmy  Lou's  heart  stood  still.  Then  it  swelled.  But  in 
her  filling  eyes  there  was  no  suspicion,  only  hurt.  And  even 
while  a  tear  splashed  down,  and  falling  upon  the  laboriously 
copied  digits,  wrought  havoc,  she  smiled  bravely  across  at 


6  AMERICANS  ALL 

the  little  boy.  It  would  have  made  the  little  boy  feel  bad 
to  know  how  it  hurt.  So  Emmy  Lou  winked  bravely  and 
smiled. 

Whereupon  the  little  boy  wheeled  about  suddenly  and  fell 
to  copying  digits  furiously.  Nor  did  he  look  Emmy  Lou's  way, 
only  drove  his  pencil  into  his  slate  with  a  fervor  that  made 
Miss  Clara  rap  sharply  on  her  desk. 

Emmy  Lou  wondered  if  the  little  boy  was  mad.  One 
would  think  it  had  stung  the  little  boy  and  not  her.  But  since 
he  was  not  looking,  she  felt  free  to  let  her  little  fist  seek  her 
mouth  for  comfort. 

Nor  did  Emmy  Lou  dream,  that  across  the  aisle,  remorse  was 
eating  into  a  little  boy's  soul.  Or  that,  along  with  remorse 
there  went  the  image  of  one  Emmy  Lou,  defenceless,  pink- 
cheeked,  and  smiling  bravely. 

The  next  morning  Emmy  Lou  was  early.  She  was  always 
early.  Since  entering  the  Primer  Class,  breakfast  had  lost  its 
savor  to  Emmy  Lou  in  the  terror  of  being  late. 

But  this  morning  the  little  boy  was  there  before  her. 
Hitherto  his  tardy  and  clattering  arrival  had  been  a  daily  hap 
pening,  provocative  of  accents  sharp  and  energetic  from  Miss 
Clara. 

But  this  morning  he  was  at  his  desk  copying  from  his 
Primer  on  to  his  slate.  The  easy,  ostentatious  way  in  which  he 
glanced  from  slate  to  book  was  not  lost  upon  Emmy  Lou, 
who  lost  her  place  whenever  her  eyes  left  the  rows  of  digits 
upon  the  blackboard. 

Emmy  Lou  watched  the  performance.  And  the  little  boy's 
pencil  drove  with  furious  ease  and  its  path  was  marked  with 
flourishes.  Emmy  Lou  never  dreamed  that  it  was  because 
she  was  watching  that  the  little  boy  was  moved  to  this  bril 
liant  exhibition.  Presently  reaching  the  end  of  his  page,  he 
looked  up,  carelessly,  incidentally.  It  seemed  to  be  borne  to 
him  that  Emmy  Lou  was  there,  whereupon  he  nodded.  Then, 
as  if  moved  by  sudden  impulse,  he  dived  into  his  desk,  and 


THE  RIGHT  PROMETHEAN  FIRE  7 

after  ostentatious  search  in,  on,  under  it,  brought  forth  a 
pencil,  and  held  it  up  for  Emmy  Lou  to  see.  Nor  did  she 
dream  that  it  was  for  this  the  little  boy  had  been  there  since 
before  Uncle  Michael  had  unlocked  the  Primer  door. 

Emmy  Lou  looked  across  at  the  pencil.  It  was  a  slate-pencil. 
A  fine,  long,  new  slate-pencil  grandly  encased  for  half  its  length 
in  gold  paper.  One  bought  them  at  the  drug-store  across  from 
the  school,  and  one  paid  for  them  the  whole  of  five  cents. 

Just  then  a  bell  rang.  Emmy  Lou  got  up  suddenly.  But 
it  was  the  bell  for  school  to  take  up.  So  she  sat  down.  She 
was  glad  Miss  Clara  was  not  yet  in  her  place. 

After  the  Primer  Class  had  filed  in,  with  panting  and 
frosty  entrance,  the  bell  rang  again.  This  time  it  was  the 
right  bell  tapped  by  Miss  Clara,  now  in  her  place.  So  again 
Emmy  Lou  got  up  suddenly  and  by  following  the  little  girl 
ahead  learned  that  the  bell  meant,  "  go  out  to  the  bench." 

The  Primer  Class  according  to  the  degree  of  its  infant 
precocity  was  divided  in  three  sections.  Emmy  Lou  belonged 
to  the  third  section.  It  was  the  last  section  and  she  was  the 
last  one  in  it  though  she  had  no  idea  what  a  section  meant 
nor  why  she  was  in  it. 

Yesterday  the  third  section  had  said,  over  and  over,  in 
chorus,  "  One  and  one  are  two,  two  and  two  are  four,"  etc. — 
but  to-day  they  said,  "  Two  and  one  are  three,  two  and  two  are 
four." 

Emmy  Lou  wondered,  four  what?  Which  put  her  behind, 
so  that  when  she  began  again  they  were  saying,  "  two  and  four 
are  six."  So  now  she  knew.  Four  is  six.  But  what  is  six? 
Emmy  Lou  did  not  know. 

When  she  came  back  to  her  desk  the  pencil  was  there.  The 
fine,  new,  long  slate-pencil  encased  in  gold  paper.  And  the 
little  boy  was  gone.  He  belonged  to  the  first  section,  and 
the  first  section  was  now  on  the  bench.  Emmy  Lou  leaned 
across  and  put  the  pencil  back  on  the  little  boy's  desk. 

Then  she  prepared  herself  to  copy  digits  with  her  stump  of 


8  AMERICANS  ALL 

a  pencil.  Emmy  Lou's  were  always  stumps.  Her  pencil  had 
a  way  of  rolling  off  her  desk  while  she  was  gone,  and  one  pencil 
makes  many  stumps.  The  little  boy  had  generally  helped  her 
pick  them  up  on  her  return.  But  strangely,  from  this  time,  her 
pencils  rolled  off  no  more. 

But  when  Emmy  Lou  took  up  her  slate  there  was  a  whole 
side  filled  with  digits  in  soldierly  rows  across,  so  her  heart 
grew  light  and  free  from  the  weight  of  digits,  and  she  gave 
her  time  to  the  washing  of  her  desk,  a  thing  in  which  her 
soul  revelled,  and  for  which,  patterning  after  her  little  girl 
neighbors,  she  kept  within  that  desk  a  bottle  of  soapy  water 
and  rags  of  gray  and  unpleasant  nature,  that  never  dried, 
because  of  their  frequent  using.  When  Emmy  Lou  first  came 
to  school,  her  cleaning  paraphernalia  consisted  of  a  sponge 
secured  by  a  string  to  her  slate,  which  was  the  badge  of  the 
new  and  the  unsophisticated  comer.  Emmy  Lou  had  quickly 
learned  that,  and  no  one  rejoiced  in  a  fuller  assortment  of 
soap,  bottle,  and  rags  than  she,  nor  did  a  sponge  longer  dangle 
from  the  frame  of  her  slate. 

On  coming  in  from  recess  this  same  day,  Emmy  Lou  found 
the  pencil  on  her  desk  again,  the  beautiful  new  pencil  in  the 
gilded  paper.  She  put  it  back. 

But  when  she  reached  home,  the  pencil,  the  beautiful  pencil 
that  costs  all  of  five  cents,  was  in  her  companion  box  along 
with  her  stumps  and  her  sponge  and  her  grimy  little  slate 
rags.  And  about  the  pencil  was  wrapped  a  piece  of  paper.  It 
had  the  look  of  the  margin  of  a  Primer  page.  The  paper  bore 
marks.  They  were  not  digits. 

Emmy  Lou  took  the  paper  to  Aunt  Cordelia.  They  were 
at  dinner. 

"  Can't  you  read  it,  Emmy  Lou?  "  asked  Aunt  Katie,  the 
prettiest  aunty. 

Emmy  Lou  shook  her  head. 

"I'll  spell  the  letters,"  said  Aunt  Louise,  the  youngest 
aunty. 


THE  RIGHT  PROMETHEAN  FIRE  9 

But  they  did  not  help  Emmy  Lou  one  bit. 

Aunt  Cordelia  looked  troubled.  "  She  doesn't  seem  to  be 
catching  up,"  she  said. 

"No,"  said  Aunt  Katie. 

"  No,"  agreed  Aunt  Louise. 

"  Nor — on,"  said  Uncle  Charlie,  the  brother  of  the  aunties, 
lighting  up  his  cigar  to  go  downtown. 

Aunt  Cordelia  spread  the  paper  out.     It  bore  the  words: 

"It  is  for  you." 

So  Emmy  Lou  put  the  pencil  away  in  the  companion,  and 
tucked  it  about  with  the  grimy  slate  rags  that  no  harm  might 
befall  it.  And  the  next  day  she  took  it  out  and  used  it.  But 
first  she  looked  over  at  the  little  boy.  The  little  boy  was 
busy.  But  when  she  looked  up  again,  he  was  looking. 

The  little  boy  grew  red,  and  wheeling  suddenly,  fell  to  copy 
ing  digits  furiously.  And  from  that  moment  on  the  little  boy 
was  moved  to  strange  behavior. 

Three  times  before  recess  did  he,  boldly  ignoring  the  pre 
face  of  upraised  hand,  swagger  up  to  Miss  Clara's  desk.  And 
going  and  coming,  the  little  boy's  boots  with  copper  toes 
and  run-down  heels  marked  with  thumping  emphasis  upon  the 
echoing  boards  his  processional  and  recessional.  And  reach 
ing  his  desk,  the  little  boy  slammed  down  his  slate  with  clatter 
ing  reverberations. 

Emmy  Lou  watched  him  uneasily.  She  was  miserable  for 
him.  She  did  not  know  that  there  are  times  when  the  emotions 
are  more  potent  than  the  subtlest  wines.  Nor  did  she  know 
that  the  male  of  some  species  is  moved  thus  to  exhibition 
of  prowess,  courage,  defiance,  for  the  impressing  of  the  chosen 
female  of  the  species. 

Emmy  Lou  merely  knew  that  she  was  miserable  and  that 
she  trembled  for  the  little  boy. 

Having  clattered  his  slate  until  Miss  Clara  rapped  sharply, 
the  little  boy  rose  and  went  swaggering  on  an  excursion  around 
the  room  to  where  sat  the  bucket  and  dipper.  And  on  his 


io  AMERICANS  ALL 

return  he  came  up  the  center  aisle  between  the  sheep  and  the 
goats. 

Emmy  Lou  had  no  idea  what  happened.  It  took  place  be 
hind  her.  But  there  was  another  little  girl  who  did.  A  little 
girl  who  boasted  curls,  yellow  curls  in  tiered  rows  about  her 
head.  A  lachrymosal  little  girl,  who  affected  great  horror  of 
the  little  boys. 

And  what  Emmy  Lou  failed  to  see  was  this:  the  little 
boy,  in  passing,  deftly  lifted  a  cherished  curl  between  finger 
and  thumb  and  proceeded  on  his  way. 

The  little  girl  did  not  fail  the  little  boy.  In  the  suddenness 
of  the  surprise  she  surprised  even  him  by  her  outcry.  Miss 
Clara  jumped.  Emmy  Lou  jumped.  And  the  sixty-nine 
jumped.  And,  following  this,  the  little  girl  lifted  her  voice  in 
lachrymal  lament. 

Miss  Clara  sat  erect.  The  Primer  Class  held  its  breath. 
It  always  held  its  breath  when  Miss  Clara  sat  erect.  Emmy 
Lou  held  tightly  to  her  desk  besides.  She  wondered  what  it 
was  all  about. 

Then  Miss  Clara  spoke.    Her  accents  cut  the  silence. 

"Billy  Traver!  " 

Billy  Traver  stood  forth.    It  was  the  little  boy. 

"  Since  you  seem  pleased  to  occupy  yourself  with  the  little 
girls,  Billy,  go  to  the  pegs!  " 

Emmy  Lou  trembled.  "  Go  to  the  pegs!  "  What  unknown, 
inquisitorial  terrors  lay  behind  those  dread,  laconic  words, 
Emmy  Lou  knew  not. 

She  could  only  sit  and  watch  the  little  boy  turn  and  stump 
back  down  the  aisle  and  around  the  room  to  where  along  the 
wall  hung  rows  of  feminine  apparel. 

Here  he  stopped  and  scanned  the  line.  Then  he  paused 
before  a  hat.  It  was  a  round  little  hat  with  silky  nap  and  a 
curling  brim.  It  had  rosettes  to  keep  the  ears  warm  and  rib 
bon  that  tied  beneath  the  chin.  It  was  Emmy  Lou's  hat. 
Aunt  Cordelia  had  cautioned  her  to  care  concerning  it. 


THE  RIGHT  PROMETHEAN  FIRE  11 

The  little  boy  took  it  down.  There  seemed  to  be  no  doubt 
in  his  mind  as  to  what  Miss  Clara  meant.  But  then  he  had 
been  in  the  Primer  Class  from  the  beginning. 

Having  taken  the  hat  down  he  proceeded  to  put  it  upon 
his  own  shock  head.  His  face  wore  its  broad  and  constant 
smile.  One  would  have  said  the  little  boy  was  enjoying  the 
affair.  As  he  put  the  hat  on,  the  sixty-nine  laughed.  The 
seventieth  did  not.  It  was  her  hat,  and  besides,  she  did  not 
understand. 

Miss  Clara  still  erect  spoke  again:  "  And  now,  since  you  are 
a  little  girl,  get  your  book,  Billy,  and  move  over  with  the 
girls." 

Nor  did  Emmy  Lou  understand  why,  when  Billy,  having 
gathered  his  belongings  together,  moved  across  the  aisle  and 
sat  down  with  her,  the  sixty-nine  laughed  again.  Emmy  Lou 
did  not  laugh.  She  made  room  for  Billy. 

Nor  did  she  understand  when  Billy  treated  her  to  a  slow  and 
surreptitious  wink,  his  freckled  countenance  grinning  beneath 
the  resetted  hat.  It  never  could  have  occurred  to  Emmy  Lou 
that  Billy  had  laid  his  cunning  plans  to  this  very  end.  Emmy 
Lou  understood  nothing  of  all  this.  She  only  pitied  Billy. 
And  presently,  when  public  attention  had  become  diverted, 
she  proffered  him  the  hospitality  of  a  grimy  little  slate  rag. 
When  Billy  returned  the  rag  there  was  something  in  it — 
something  wrapped  in  a  beautiful,  glazed,  shining  bronze  paper. 
It  was  a  candy  kiss.  One  paid  five  cents  for  six  of  them  at 
the  drug-store. 

On  the  road  home,  Emmy  Lou  ate  the  candy.  The  beauti 
ful,  shiny  paper  she  put  in  her  Primer.  The  slip  of  paper 
that  she  found  within  she  carried  to  Aunt  Cordelia.  It  was 
sticky  and  it  was  smeared.  But  it  had  reading  on  it. 

"  But  this  is  printing,"  said  Aunt  Cordelia;  "  can't  you  read 
it?" 

Emmy  Lou  shook  her  head. 

''Try,"  said  Aunt  Katie. 


12  AMERICANS  ALL 

"  The  easy  words,"  said  Aunt  Louise. 

But  Emmy  Lou,  remembering  c-a-t,  Pussy,  shook  her  head. 

Aunt  Cordelia  looked  troubled.  "  She  certainly  isn't  catch 
ing  up,"  said  Aunt  Cordelia.  Then  she  read  from  the  slip  of 
paper: 

"  Oh,  woman,  woman,  thou  wert  made 
The  peace  of  Adam  to  invade." 


The  aunties  laughed,  but  Emmy  Lou  put  it  away  with  the 
glazed  paper  in  her  Primer.  It  meant  quite  as  much  to  her  as 
did  the  reading  in  that  Primer:  Cat,  a  cat,  the  cat.  The  bat, 
the  mat,  a  rat.  It  was  the  jingle  to  both  that  appealed  to 
Emmy  Lou. 

About  this  time  rumors  began  to  reach  Emmy  Lou.  She 
heard  that  it  was  February,  and  that  wonderful  things  were 
peculiar  to  the  Fourteenth.  At  recess  the  little  girls  locked  arms 
and  talked  Valentines.  The  echoes  reached  Emmy  Lou. 

The  valentine  must  come  from  a  little  boy,  or  it  wasn't  the 
real  thing.  And  to  get  no  valentine  was  a  dreadful — dreadful 
thing.  And  even  the  timidest  of  the  sheep  began  to  cast 
eyes  across  at  the  goats. 

Emmy  Lou  wondered  if  she  would  get  a  valentine.  And  if 
not,  how  was  she  to  survive  the  contumely  and  shame? 

You  must  never,  never  breathe  to  a  living  soul  what  was 
on  your  valentine.  To  tell  even  your  best  and  truest  little 
girl  friend  was  to  prove  faithless  to  the  little  boy  sending 
the  valentine.  These  things  reached  Emmy  Lou. 

Not  for  the  world  would  she  tell.  Emmy  Lou  was  sure  of 
that,  so  grateful  did  she  feel  she  would  be  to  anyone  sending 
her  a  valentine. 

And  in  doubt  and  wretchedness  did  she  wend  her  way 
to  school  on  the  Fourteenth  Day  of  February.  The  drug-store 
window  was  full  of  valentines.  But  Emmy  Lou  crossed  the 
street.  She  did  not  want  to  see  them.  She  knew  the  little 


THE  RIGHT  PROMETHEAN  FIRE  13 

girls  would  ask  her  if  she  had  gotten  a  valentine.  And 
she  would  have  to  say,  No. 

She  was  early.  The  big,  empty  room  echoed  back  her  foot 
steps  as  she  went  to  her  desk  to  lay  down  book  and  slate  before 
taking  off  her  wraps.  Nor  did  Emmy  Lou  dream  the  eye  of 
the  little  boy  peeped  through  the  crack  of  the  door  from 
Miss  Clara's  dressing-room. 

Emmy  Lou's  hat  and  jacket  were  forgotten.  On  her  desk 
lay  something  square  and  white.  It  was  an  envelope.  It 
was  a  beautiful  envelope,  all  over  flowers  and  scrolls. 

Emmy  Lou  knew  it.  It  was  a  valentine.  Her  cheeks  grew 
pink. 

She  took  it  out.  It  was  blue.  And  it  was  gold.  And  it  had 
reading  on  it. 

Emmy  Lou's  heart  sank.  She  could  not  read  the  reading. 
The  door  opened.  Some  little  girls  came  in.  Emmy  Lou  hid 
her  valentine  in  her  book,  for  since  you  must  not — she  would 
never  show  her  valentine — never. 

The  little  girls  wanted  to  know  if  she  had  gotten  a  valentine, 
and  Emmy  Lou  said,  Yes,  and  her  cheeks  were  pink  with 
the  joy  of  being  able  to  say  it. 

Through  the  day,  she  took  peeps  between  the  covers  of  her 
Primer,  but  no  one  else  might  see  it. 

It  rested  heavy  on  Emmy  Lou's  heart,  however,  that  there 
was  reading  on  it.  She  studied  it  surreptitiously.  The  reading 
was  made  up  of  letters.  It  was  the  first  time  Emmy  Lou  had 
thought  about  that.  She  knew  some  of  the  letters.  She  would 
ask  someone  the  letters  she  did  not  know  by  pointing  them  out 
on  the  chart  at  recess.  Emmy  Lou  was  learning.  It  was  the 
first  time  since  she  came  to  school. 

But  what  did  the  letters  make?  She  wondered,  after  recess, 
studying  the  valentine  again. 

Then  she  went  home.  She  followed  Aunt  Cordelia  about. 
Aunt  Cordelia  was  busy. 

"  What  does  it  read?  "  asked  Emmy  Lou. 


14  AMERICANS  ALL 

Aunt  Cordelia  listened. 

"  B,"  said  Emmy  Lou,  "  and  e?  " 

"Be,"  said  Aunt  Cordelia. 

If  B  was  Be,  it  was  strange  that  B  and  e  were  Be.  But 
many  things  were  strange. 

Emmy  Lou  accepted  them  all  on  faith. 

After  dinner  she  approached  Aunt  Katie. 

"  What  does  it  read?  "  asked  Emmy  Lou,  "  m  and  y?  " 

"My,"  said  Aunt  Katie. 

The  rest  was  harder.  She  could  not  remember  the  letters, 
and  had  to  copy  them  off  on  her  slate.  Then  she  sought  Tom, 
the  house-boy.  Tom  was  out  at  the  gate  talking  to  another 
house-boy.  She  waited  until  the  other  boy  was  gone. 

"  What  does  it  read?  "  asked  Emmy  Lou,  and  she  told  the 
letters  off  the  slate.  It  took  Tom  some  time,  but  finally  he 
told  her. 

Just  then  a  little  girl  came  along.  She  was  a  first-section 
little  girl,  and  at  school  she  never  noticed  Emmy  Lou. 

Now  she  was  alone,  so  she  stopped. 

"  Get  any  valentines?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Emmy  Lou.  Then  moved  to  confidence  by  the 
little  girl's  friendliness,  she  added,  "  It  has  reading  on  it." 

"Pooh,"  said  the  little  girl,  "they  all  have  that.  My 
mamma's  been  reading  the  long  verses  inside  to  me." 

"  Can  you  show  them — valentines?  "  asked  Emmy  Lou. 

"  Of  course,  to  grown-up  people,"  said  the  little  girl. 

The  gas  was  lit  when  Emmy  Lou  came  in.  Uncle  Charlie 
was  there,  and  the  aunties,  sitting  around,  reading. 

"  I  got  a  valentine,"  said  Emmy  Lou. 

They  all  looked  up.  They  had  forgotten  it  was  Valentine's 
Day,  and  it  came  to  them  that  if  Emmy  Lou's  mother  had  not 
gone  away,  never  to  come  back,  the  year  before,  Valentine's 
Day  would  not  have  been  forgotten.  Aunt  Cordelia  smoothed 
the  black  dress  she  was  wearing  because  of  the  mother  who 
would  never  come  back,  and  looked  troubled. 


THE  RIGHT  PROMETHEAN  FIRE  15 

But  Emmy  Lou  laid  the  blue  and  gold  valentine  on  Aunt 
Cordelia's  knee.  In  the  valentine's  center  were  two  hands 
clasping.  Emmy  Lou's  forefinger  pointed  to  the  words  be 
neath  the  clasped  hands. 

"  I  can  read  it,"  said  Emmy  Lou. 

They  listened.  Uncle  Charlie  put  down  his  paper.  Aunt 
Louise  looked  over  Aunt  Cordelia's  shoulder. 

"  B,"  said  Emmy  Lou,  "  e— Be." 

The  aunties  nodded. 

"  M,"  said  Emmy  Lou,  "  y— my." 

Emmy  Lou  did  not  hesitate.  "  V,"  said  Emmy  Lou,  "  aa 
1,  e,  n,  t,  i,  n,  e — Valentine.  Be  my  Valentine." 

"There!  "  said  Aunt  Cordelia. 

"Well!  "said  Aunt  Katie. 

"  At  last!  "  said  Aunt  Louise. 

"  H'm!  "  said  Uncle  Charlie. 


GEORGE  MADDEN  MARTIN 

In  the  South  it  is  not  unusual  to  give  boys'  names  to  girls, 
so  it  happens  that  George  is  the  real  name  of  the  woman 
who  wrote  Emmy  Lou.  George  Madden  was  born  in  Louis 
ville,  Kentucky,  May  3,  1866.  She  attended  the  public 
schools  in  Louisville,  but  on  account  of  ill  health  did  not  gradu 
ate.  She  married  Atwood  R.  Martin,  and  they  made  their 
home  at  Anchorage,  a  suburb  of  Louisville.  Here  in  an  old 
house  surrounded  by  great  catalpa  trees,  with  cardinals  nest 
ing  in  their  branches,  she  was  recovering  from  an  illness,  and 
to  pass  the  time  began  to  write  a  short  story.  The  title  was 
"  How  They  Missed  the  Exposition  ";  when  it  was  sent  away, 
and  a  check  for  seventy-five  dollars  came  in  payment,  she  was 
encouraged  to  go  on.  Her  next  work  was  the  series  of  stories 
entitled  Emmy  Lou,  Her  Book  and  Heart.  This  at  once  took 
rank  as  one  of  the  classics  of  school-room  literature.  It  had  a 
wide  popularity  in  this  country,  and  was  translated  into  French 
and  German.  One  of  the  pleasant  tributes  paid  to  the  book 
was  a  review  in  a  Pittsburgh  newspaper  which  took  the  form 
of  a  letter  to  Emmy  Lou.  It  ran  in  part  as  follows: 

Dear  Little  Emmy  Lou: 

I  have  read  your  book,  Emmy  Lou,  and  am  writing  this  letter  to 
tell  you  how  much  I  love  you.  In  my  world  of  books  I  know  a  great 
assembly  of  lovely  ladies,  Emmy  Lou,  crowned  with  beauty  and 
garlanded  with  grace,  that  have  inspired  poets  to  song  and  the  hearts 
of  warriors  to  battle,  but,  Emmy  Lou,  I  love  you  better  than  them 
all,  because  you  are  the  dearest  little  girl  I  ever  met. 

I  felt  very  sorry  for  you  when  the  little  boy  in  the  Primer  World, 
who  could  so  glibly  tell  the  teacher  all  about  the  mat  and  the  bat 
and  the  black  rat  and  the  fat  hen,  hurt  your  chubby  fist  by  snapping 
an  india-rubber  band.  I  do  not  think  he  atoned  quite  enough  when 
he  gave  you  that  fine  new  long  slate  pencil,  nor  when  he  sent  you 
your  first  valentine.  No,  he  has  not  atoned  quite  enough,  Emmy 
Lou,  but  now  that  you  are  Miss  McLaurin,  you  will  doubtless  even 

16 


GEORGE  MADDEN  MARTIN  17 

the  score  by  snapping  the  india-rubber  band  of  your  disdain  at  his 
heart.  But  only  to  show  him  how  it  stings,  and  then,  of  course, 
you'll  make  up  for  the  hurt  and  be  his  valentine— won't  you,  Emmy 
Lou?  .  .  . 

And  when,  at  twelve  years,  you  find  yourself  dreaming,  Emmy 
Lou,  and  watching  the  clouds  through  the  schoolroom  window,  still 
I  love  you,  Emmy  Lou,  for  your  conscience,  which  William  told 
about  in  his  essay.  You  remember,  the  two  girls  who  met  a  cow. 

"  Look  her  right  in  the  face  and  pretend  we  aren't  afraid,"  sai-d  the 
biggest  girl.  But  the  littlest  girl — that  was  you — had  a  conscience. 
"Won't  it  be  deceiving  the  cow?"  she  wanted  to  know.  Brave, 
honest  Emmy  Lou ! 

Yes,  I  love  you,  Emmy  Lou,  better  than  all  the  proud  and  beaute 
ous  heroines  in  the  big  grown-up  books,  because  you  are  so  sun 
shiny  and  trustful,  so  sweet  and  brave— because  you  have  a  heart 
of  gold,  Emmy  Lou.  And  I  want  you  to  tell  George  Madden  Martin 
how  glad  I  am  that  she  has  told  us  all  about  you,  the  dearest  little 
girl  since  Alice  dropped  down  into  Wonderland. 

George  Seibel. 


The  book  is  more  than  a  delightful  piece  of  fiction.  Through 
its  faithful  study  of  the  development  of  a  child's  mind,  and  its 
criticism  of  the  methods  employed  in  many  schools,  it  be 
comes  a  valuable  contribution  to  education.  As  such  it  is 
used  in  the  School  of  Pedagogy  of  Harvard  University. 

George  Madden  Martin  told  more  about  Emmy  Lou  in  a 
second  book  of  stories  entitled  Emmy  Lou's  Road  to  Grace, 
which  relates  the  little  girl's  experience  at  home  and  in  Sun 
day  school.  Other  works  from  her  pen  are:  A  Warwickshire 
Lad,  the  story  of  William  Shakespeare's  early  life;  The  House 
of  Fulfillment,  a  novel;  Abbie  Ann,  a  story  for  children;  Leti- 
tia;  Nursery  Corps,  U.  S.  A.,  a  story  of  a  child,  also  showing 
various  aspects  of  army  life;  Selina,  the  story  of  a  young 
girl  who  has  been  brought  up  in  luxury,  and  finds  herself 
confronted  with  the  necessity  of  earning  a  living  without 
any  equipment  for  the  task.  None  of  these  has  equalled  the 
success  of  her  first  book,  but  that  is  one  of  the  few  successful 
portrayals  of  child  life  in  fiction. 


JUST  KIDS 


That  part  of  New  York  City  known  as  the  East  Side,  the 
region  south  of  Fourteenth  Street  and  east  of  Broadway,  is 
the  most  densely  populated  square  mile  on  earth.  Its  people 
are  of  all  races,  Chinatown,  Little  Hungary  and  Little  Italy 
elbow  each  other;  streets  where  the  signs  are  in  Hebrew  charac 
ters,  theatres  where  plays  are  given  in  Yiddish,  notices  in  the 
parks  in  jour  or  five  languages,  make  one  rub  his  eyes  and 
wonder  if  he  is  not  in  some  foreign  land.  Into  this  region 
Myra  Kelly  went  as  a  teacher  in  the  public  school.  Her 
pupils  were  largely  Russian  Jews,  and  in  a  series  of  delight 
fully  humorous  stories  she  has  drawn  these  little  citizens  to 
the  life. 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE 

BY 

MYRA  KELLY 

ISAAC  BORRACHSOHN,  that  son  of  potentates  and  of  Assembly 
men,  had  been  taken  to  Central  Park  by  a  proud  uncle.  For 
weeks  thereafter  he  was  the  favorite  bard  of  the  First  Reader 
Class  and  an  exceeding  great  trouble  to  its  sovereign,  Miss 
Bailey,  who  found  him  now  as  garrulous  as  he  had  once  been 
silent.  There  was  no  subject  in  the  Course  of  Study  to  which 
he  could  not  correlate  the  wonders  of  his  journey,  and  Teacher 
asked  herself  daily  and  in  vain  whether  it  were  more  peda- 
gogically  correct  to  encourage  "spontaneous  self-expression" 
or  to  insist  upon  "  logically  essential  sequence." 

But  the  other  members  of  the  class  suffered  no  such  un 
certainty.  They  voted  solidly  for  spontaneity  in  a  self  which 
found  expression  thus: 

"  Und  in  the  Central  Park  stands  a  water-lake,  und  in  the 
water-lake  stands  birds— a  big  all  of  birds— und  fishes.  Und 
sooner  you  likes  you  should  come  over  the  water-lake  you 
calls  a  bird,  und  you  sets  on  the  bird,  und  the  bird  makes  go 
his  legs,  und  you  comes  over  the  water-lake." 

"  They  could  be  awful  polite  birds,"  Eva  Gonorowsky  was 
beginning  when  Morris  interrupted  with: 

"  I  had  once  a  auntie  und  she  had  a  bird,  a  awful  polite  bird; 
on'y  sooner  somebody  calls  him  he  couldn't  to  come  the  while 
he  sets  in  a  cage." 

"  Did  he  have  a  rubber  neck?  "  Isaac  inquired,  and  Morris 
reluctantly  admitted  that  he  had  not  been  so  blessed. 

"  In  the  Central  Park,"  Isaac  went  on,  "  all  the  birds  is  got 
rubber  necks." 

21 


22  AMERICANS  ALL 

"  What  color  from  birds  be  they?  "  asked  Eva. 

"  All  colors.    Blue  und  white  und  red  und  yellow." 

"  Und  green,"  Patrick  Brennan  interjected  determinedly. 
"  The  green  ones  is  the  best." 

"  Did  you  go  once?  "  asked  Isaac,  slightly  disconcerted. 

"  Naw,  but  I  know.    Me  big  brother  told  me." 

"  They  could  to  be  stylish  birds,  too,"  said  Eva  wistfully. 
"  Stylish  und  polite.  From  red  und  green  birds  is  awful 
stylish  for  hats." 

"  But  these  birds  is  big.  Awful  big!  Mans  could  ride  on 
'em  und  ladies  und  boys." 

"  Und  little  girls,  Ikey?  Ain't  they  fer  little  girls?  "  asked 
the  only  little  girl  in  the  group.  And  a  very  small  girl  she 
was,  with  a  softly  gentle  voice  and  darkly  gentle  eyes  fixed 
pleadingly  now  upon  the  bard. 

"Yes,"  answered  Isaac  grudgingly;  "sooner  they  sets  by 
somebody's  side  little  girls  could  to  go.  But  sooner  nobody 
holds  them  by  the  hand  they  could  to  have  fraids  over  the 
rubber-neck-boat-birds  und  the  water-lake,  und  the  fishes." 

"  What  kind  from  fishes?  "  demanded  Morris  Mogilewsky, 
monitor  of  Miss  Bailey's  gold  fish  bowl,  with  professional 
interest. 

"  From  gold  fishes  und  red  fishes  und  black  fishes  " — Pat 
rick  stirred  uneasily  and  Isaac  remembered — "  und  green 
fishes;  the  green  ones  is  the  biggest;  and  blue  fishes  und  all 
kinds  from  fishes.  They  lives  way  down  in  the  water  the 
while  they  have  fraids  over  the  rubber-neck-boat-birds.  Say — 
what  you  think?  Sooner  a  rubber-neck-boat-bird  needs  he 
should  eat  he  longs  down  his  neck  und  eats  a  from-gold 
fish." 

"  'Out  fry  in'?  "  asked  Eva,  with  an  incredulous  shudder. 

"  Yes,  'out  fryin'.  Ain't  I  told  you  little  girls  could  to  have 
fraids  over  'em?  Boys  could  have  fraids  too,"  cried  Isaac; 
and  then  spurred  by  the  calm  of  his  rival,  he  added:  "  The 
rubber-neck-boat-birds  they  hollers  somethin'  fierce." 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE  23 

"  I  wouldn't  be  afraid  of  them.  Me  pop's  a  cop/'  cried 
Patrick  stoutly.  "  I'd  just  as  lief  set  on  'em.  I'd  like  to." 

"  Ah,  but  you  ain't  seen  'em,  und  you  ain't  heard  'em  holler," 
Isaac  retorted. 

"  Well,  I'm  goin'  to.  An'  I'm  goin'  to  see  the  lions  an'  the 
tigers  an'  the  el'phants,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  ride  on  the  water-lake." 

"  Oh,  how  I  likes  I  should  go  too!  "  Eva  broke  out.  "  O- 
o-oh,  how  I  likes  I  should  look  on  them  things!  On'y  I  don't 
know  do  I  need  a  ride  on  somethings  what  hollers.  I  don't 
know  be  they  fer  me." 

"  Well,  I'll  take  ye  with  me  if  your  mother  leaves  you  go," 
said  Patrick  grandly.  "An'  ye  can  hold  me  hand  if  ye're 
scared." 

"  Me  too?  "  implored  Morris.    "  Oh,  Patrick,  c'n  I  go  too?  " 

"  I  guess  so,"  answered  the  Leader  of  the  Line  graciously. 
But  he  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  Isaac  Borrachsohn's  implorings 
to  be  allowed  to  join  the  party.  Full  well  did  Patrick  know 
of  the  grandeur  of  Isaac's  holiday  attire  and  the  impressionable 
nature  of  Eva's  soul,  and  gravely  did  he  fear  that  his  own 
Sunday  finery,  albeit  fashioned  from  the  blue  cloth  and  brass 
buttons  of  his  sire,  might  be  outshone. 

At  Eva's  earnest  request,  Sadie,  her  cousin,  was  invited, 
and  Morris  suggested  that  the  Monitor  of  the  Window  Boxes 
should  not  be  slighted  by  his  colleagues  of  the  gold  fish  and 
the  line.  So  Nathan  Spiderwitz  was  raised  to  Alpine  heights 
of  anticipation  by  visions  of  a  window  box  "  as  big  as  blocks 
and  streets,"  where  every  plant,  in  contrast  to  his  lanky  charges, 
bore  innumerable  blossoms.  Ignatius  Aloysius  Diamantstein 
was  unanimously  nominated  as  a  member  of  the  expedition; 
by  Patrick,  because  they  were  neighbors  at  St.  Mary's  Sunday- 
school;  by  Morris,  because  they  were  classmates  under  the 
same  rabbi  at  the  synagogue;  by  Nathan,  because  Ignatius 
Aloysius  was  a  member  of  the  "Clinton  Street  gang";  by 
Sadie,  because  he  had  "  long  pants  sailor  suit ";  by  Eva, 
because  the  others  wanted  him. 


24  AMERICANS  ALL 

Eva  reached  home  that  afternoon  tingling  with  anticipation 
and  uncertainty.  What  if  her  mother,  with  one  short  word, 
should  close  forever  the  gates  of  joy  and  boat-birds?  But 
Mrs.  Gonorowsky  met  her  small  daughter's  elaborate  plea  with 
the  simple  question: 

"  Who  pays  you  the  car-fare?  " 

"  Does  it  need  car- fare   to  go?  "   faltered  Eva. 

"  Sure  does  it,"  answered  her  mother.  "  I  don't  know 
how  much,  but  some  it  needs.  Who  pays  it?  " 

"  Patrick  ain't  said." 

"  Well,  you  should  better  ask  him,"  Mrs.  Gonorowsky  ad 
vised,  and,  on  the  next  morning,  Eva  did.  She  thereby  buried 
the  leader  under  the  ruins  of  his  fallen  castle  of  clouds,  but  he 
struggled  through  them  with  the  suggestion  that  each  of  his 
guests  should  be  her,  or  his,  own  banker. 

"  But  ain't  you  got  no  money  't  all?  "  asked  the  guest  of 
honor. 

"  Not  a  cent,"  responded  the  host.  "  But  I'll  get  it.  How 
much  have  you?  " 

"  A  penny.    How  much  do  I  need?  " 

"  I  don't  know.    Let's  ask  Miss  Bailey." 

School  had  not  yet  formally  begun  and  Teacher  was  reading. 
She  was  hardly  disturbed  when  the  children  drove  sharp  elbows 
into  her  shoulder  and  her  lap,  and  she  answered  Eva's — "  Miss 
Bailey — oh,  Missis  Bailey,"  with  an  abstracted — "  Well, 
dear?  " 

"  Missis  Bailey,  how  much  money  takes  car-fare  to  the 
Central  Park?  " 

Still  with  divided  attention,  Teacher  replied — "  Five  cents, 
honey,"  and  read  on,  while  Patrick  called  a  meeting  of  his 
forces  and  made  embarrassing  explanations  with  admirable 
tact. 

There  ensued  weeks  of  struggle  and  economy  for  the  ex 
ploring  party,  to  which  had  been  added  a  chaperon  in  the 
large  and  reassuring  person  of  Becky  Zalmonowsky,  the  class 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE  25 

idiot.  Sadie  Gonorowsky's  careful  mother  had  considered  Pat 
rick  too  immature  to  bear  the  whole  responsibility,  and  he, 
with  a  guile  which  promised  well  for  his  future,  had  complied 
with  her  desires  and  preserved  his  own  authority  unshaken. 
For  Becky,  poor  child,  though  twelve  years  old  and  of  an 
aspect  eminently  calculated  to  inspire  trust  in  those  who  had 
never  held  speech  with  her,  was  a  member  of  the  First  Reader 
Class  only  until  such  time  as  room  could  be  found  for  her  in 
some  of  the  institutions  where  such  unfortunates  are  bestowed. 

Slowly  and  in  diverse  ways  each  of  the  children  acquired  the 
essential  nickel.  Some  begged,  some  stole,  some  gambled,  some 
bartered,  some  earned,  but  their  greatest  source  of  income, 
Miss  Bailey,  was  denied  to  them.  For  Patrick  knew  that  she 
would  have  insisted  upon  some  really  efficient  guardian  from 
a  higher  class,  and  he  announced  with  much  heat  that  he  would 
not  go  at  all  under  those  circumstances. 

At  last  the  leader  was  called  upon  to  set  the  day  and  ap 
pointed  a  Saturday  in  late  May.  He  was  disconcerted  to  find 
that  only  Ignatius  Aloysius  would  travel  on  that  day. 

"It's  holidays,  all  Saturdays,"  Morris  explained;  "  und  we 
dassent  to  ride  on  no  cars." 

"  Why  not?  "  asked  Patrick. 

"  It's  law,  the  rabbi  says,"  Nathan  supplemented.  "  I  don't 
know  why  is  it;  on'y  rides  on  holidays  ain't  fer  us." 

"  I  guess,"  Eva  sagely  surmised;  "  I  guess  rubber-neck-boat- 
birds  rides  even  ain't  fer  us  on  holidays.  But  I  don't  know 
do  I  need  rides  on  birds  what  hollers." 

"  You'll  be  all  right,"  Patrick  assured  her.  "  I'm  goin'  to 
let  ye  hold  me  hand.  If  ye  can't  go  on  Saturday,  I'll  take  ye 
on  Sunday — next  Sunday.  Yous  all  must  meet  me  here  on  the 
school  steps.  Bring  yer  money  and  bring  yer  lunch  too.  It's 
a  long  way  and  ye'll  be  hungry  when  ye  get  there.  Ye  get 
a  terrible  long  ride  for  five  cents." 

"  Does  it  take  all  that  to  get  there?  "  asked  the  practical 
Nathan.  "  Then  how  are  we  goin'  to  get  back?  " 


26  AMERICANS  ALL 

Poor  little  poet  soul!  Celtic  and  improvident!  Patrick's 
visions  had  shown  him  only  the  triumphant  arrival  of  his 
host  and  the  beatific  joy  of  Eva  as  she  floated  by  his  side  on 
the  most  "  fancy  "  of  boat-birds.  Of  the  return  journey  he  had 
taken  no  thought.  And  so  the  saving  and  planning  had  to  be 
done  all  over  again.  The  struggle  for  the  first  nickel  had 
been  wearing  and  wearying,  but  the  amassment  of  the  second 
was  beyond  description  difficult.  The  children  were  worn 
from  long  strife  and  many  sacrifices,  for  the  temptations  to 
spend  six  or  nine  cents  are  so  much  more  insistent  and  un 
usual  than  are  yearnings  to  squander  lesser  sums.  Almost 
daily  some  member  of  the  band  would  confess  a  fall  from 
grace  and  solvency,  and  almost  daily  Isaac  Borrachsohn  was 
called  upon  to  descant  anew  upon  the  glories  of  the  Central 
Park.  Becky,  the  chaperon,  was  the  most  desultory  collector 
of  the  party.  Over  and  over  she  reached  the  proud  heights 
of  seven  or  even  eight  cents,  only  to  lavish  her  hoard  on  the 
sticky  joys  of  the  candy  cart  of  Isidore  Belchatosky's  papa  or 
on  the  suddy  charms  of  a  strawberry  soda. 

Then  tearfully  would  she  repent  of  her  folly,  and  bitterly 
would  the  others  upbraid  her,  telling  again  of  the  joys  and 
wonders  she  had  squandered.  Then  loudly  would  she  bewail 
her  weakness  and  plead  in  extenuation:  "  I  seen  the  candy. 
Mouses  from  choc'late  und  Foxy  Gran'pas  from  sugar — und  I 
ain't  never  seen  no  Central  Park." 

"  But  don't  you  know  how  Isaac  says?  "  Eva  would  urge. 
"  Don't  you  know  how  all  things  what  is  nice  fer  us  stands 
in  the  Central  Park?  Say,  Isaac,  you  should  better  tell 
Becky,  some  more,  how  the  Central  Park  stands." 

And  Isaac's  tales  grew  daily  more  wild  and  independent  of 
fact  until  the  little  girls  quivered  with  yearning  terror  and 
the  boys  burnished  up  forgotten  cap  pistols.  He  told  of  lions, 
tigers,  elephants,  bears,  and  buffaloes,  all  of  enormous  size  and 
strength  of  lung,  so  that  before  many  days  had  passed  he  had 
debarred  himself,  by  whole-hearted  lying,  from  the  very  pos- 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE  27 

sibility  of  joining  the  expedition  and  seeing  the  disillusionment 
of  his  public.  With  true  artistic  spirit  he  omitted  all  mention 
of  confining  house  or  cage  and  bestowed  the  gift  of  speech  upon 
all  the  characters,  whether  brute  or  human,  in  his  epic.  The 
merry-go-round  he  combined  with  the  menagerie  into  a  whole 
which  was  not  to  be  resisted. 

"  Und  all  the  am'blins,"  he  informed  his  entranced  listeners; 
"  they  goes  around,  und  around,  und  around,  where  music  plays 
und  flags  is.  Und  I  sets  a  lion  dnd  he  runs  around,  und  runs 
around,  und  runs  around.  Say — what  you  think?  He  had 
smiling  looks  und  hair  on  the  neck,  und  sooner  he  says  like 
that  '  I'm  awful  thirsty/  I  gives  him  a  peanut  und  I  gets 
a  golden  ring." 

"  Where  is  it?  "  asked  the  jealous  and  incredulous  Patrick. 

"  To  my  house."  Isaac  valiantly  lied,  for  well  he  remem 
bered  the  scene  in  which  his  scandalized  but  sympathetic 
uncle  had  discovered  his  attempt  to  purloin  the  brass  ring 
which,  with  countless  blackened  duplicates,  is  plucked  from  a 
slot  by  the  brandishing  swords  of  the  riders  upon  the  merry-go- 
round.  Truly,  its  possession  had  won  him  another  ride — this 
time  upon  an  elephant  with  upturned  trunk  and  wide  ears — 
but  in  his  mind  the  return  of  that  ring  still  ranked  as  the 
only  grief  in  an  otherwise  perfect  day. 

Miss  Bailey — ably  assisted  by  JEsop,  Rudyard  Kipling,  and 
Thompson  Seton — had  prepared  the  First  Reader  Class  to 
accept  garrulous  and  benevolent  lions,  cows,  panthers,  and 
elephants,  and  the  exploring  party's  absolute  credulity  encour 
aged  Isaac  to  higher  and  yet  higher  flights,  until  Becky  was 
strengthened  against  temptation. 

At  last,  on  a  Sunday  in  late  June,  the  cavalcade  in  splendid 
raiment  met  on  the  wide  steps,  boaided  a  Grand  Street  car, 
and  set  out  for  Paradise.  Some  confusion  occurred  at  the 
very  beginning  of  things  when  Becky  Zalmonowsky  curtly  re 
fused  to  share  her  pennies  with  the  conductor.  When  she 
was  at  last  persuaded  to  yield,  an  embarrassing  five  minutes 


28  AMERICANS  ALL 

was  consumed  in  searching  for  the  required  amount  in  the 
nooks  and  crannies  of  her  costume  where,  for  safe-keeping, 
she  had  cached  her  fund.  One  penny  was  in  her  shoe,  another 
in  her  stocking,  two  in  the  lining  of  her  hat,  and  one  in  the 
large  and  dilapidated  chatelaine  bag  which  dangled  at  her 
knees. 

Nathan  Spiderwitz,  who  had  preserved  absolute  silence,  now 
contributed  his  fare,  moist  and  warm,  from  his  mouth,  and 
Eva  turned  to  him  admonishingly. 

"  Ain't  Teacher  told  you  money  in  the  mouth  ain't  healthy 
fer  you?  "  she  sternly  questioned,  and  Nathan,  when  he  had 
removed  other  pennies,  was  able  to  answer: 

"  I  washed  'em  off — first."  And  they  were  indeed  most 
brightly  clean.  "  There's  holes  in  me  these  here  pockets,"  he 
explained,  and  promptly  corked  himself  anew  with  currency. 

"  But  they  don't  tastes  nice,  do  they?  "  Morris  remon 
strated.  Nathan  shook  a  corroborative  head.  "  Und,"  the 
Monitor  of  the  Gold  Fish  further  urged,  "  you  could  to  swal 
low  'em  und  then  you  couldn't  never  to  come  by  your  house 
no  more." 

But  Nathan  was  not  to  be  dissuaded,  even  when  the  im- 
pressional  and  experimental  Becky  tried  his  storage  system 
and  suffered  keen  discomfort  before  her  penny  was  restored 
to  her  by  a  resourceful  fellow  traveler  who  thumped  her 
right  lustily  on  the  back  until  her  Growings  ceased  and  the  coin 
was  once  more  in  her  hand. 

At  the  meeting  of  Grand  Street  with  the  Bowery,  wild  con 
fusion  was  made  wilder  by  the  addition  of  seven  small  per 
sons  armed  with  transfers  and  clamoring — all  except  Nathan — 
for  Central  Park.  Two  newsboys  and  a  policeman  bestowed 
them  upon  a  Third  Avenue  car  and  all  went  well  until  Patrick 
missed  his  lunch  and  charged  Ignatius  Aloysius  with  its  ab 
straction.  Words  ensued  which  were  not  easily  to  be  for 
gotten  even  when  the  refreshment  was  found — flat  and  horribly 
distorted — under  the  portly  frame  of  the  chaperon. 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE  29 

Jealousy  may  have  played  some  part  in  the  misunderstanding, 
for  it  was  undeniable  that  there  was  a  sprightliness,  a  joyant 
brightness,  in  the  flowing  red  scarf  on  Ignatius  Aloysius's  nau 
tical  breast,  which  was  nowhere  paralleled  in  Patrick's  more 
subdued  array.  And  the  tenth  commandment  seemed  very 
arbitrary  to  Patrick,  the  star  of  St.  Mary's  Sunday-school, 
when  he  saw  that  the  red  silk  was  attracting  nearly  all  the  at 
tention  of  his  female  contingent.  If  Eva  admired  flaunting  ties 
it  were  well  that  she  should  say  so  now.  There  was  yet  time 
to  spare  himself  the  agony  of  riding  on  rubber-neck-boat-birds 
with  one  whose  interest  wandered  from  brass  buttons.  Darkly 
Patrick  scowled  upon  his  unconscious  rival,  and  guilefully  he 
remarked  to  Eva: 

"  Red  neckties  is  nice,  don't  you  think?  " 

"  Awful  nice,"  Eva  agreed ;  "  but  they  ain't  so  stylish  like 
high-stiffs.  High-stiffs  und  derbies  is  awful  stylish." 

Gloom  and  darkness  vanished  from  the  heart  and  countenance 
of  the  Knight  of  Munster,  for  around  his  neck  he  wore,  with 
suppressed  agony,  the  highest  and  stiff est  of  "  high-stiffs  " 
and  his  brows — and  the  back  of  his  neck — were  encircled  by 
his  big  brother's  work-a-day  derby.  Again  he  saw  and  des 
cribed  to  Eva  the  vision  which  had  lived  in  his  hopes  for 
now  so  many  weeks:  against  a  background  of  teeming  jungle, 
mysterious  and  alive  with  wild  beasts,  an  amiable  boat-bird 
floated  on  the  water-lake:  and  upon  the  boat-bird,  trembling 
but  reassured,  sat  Eva  Gonorowsky,  hand  in  hand  with  her 
brass-buttoned  protector. 

As  the  car  sped  up  the  Bowery  the  children  felt  that  they 
were  indeed  adventurers.  The  clattering  Elevated  trains 
overhead,  the  crowds  of  brightly  decked  Sunday  strollers,  the 
clanging  trolley  cars,  and  the  glimpses  they  caught  of  shining 
green  as  they  passed  the  streets  leading  to  the  smaller  squares 
and  parks,  all  contributed  to  the  holiday  upliftedness  which 
swelled  their  unaccustomed  hearts.  At  each  vista  of  green  they 
made  ready  to  disembark  and  were  restrained  only  by  the 


30  AMERICANS  ALL 

conductor  and  by  the  sage  counsel  of  Eva,  who  reminded  her 
impulsive  companions  that  the  Central  Park  could  be  readily 
identified  by  "  the  hollers  from  all  those  things  what  hollers." 
And  so,  in  happy  watching  and  calm  trust  of  the  conductor, 
they  were  borne  far  beyond  59th  Street,  the  first  and  most 
popular  entrance  to  the  park,  before  an  interested  passenger 
came  to  their  rescue.  They  tumbled  off  the  car  and  pressed 
towards  the  green  only  to  find  themselves  shut  out  by  a  high 
stone  wall,  against  which  they  crouched  and  listened  in  vain 
for  identifying  hollers.  The  silence  began  to  frighten  them, 
when  suddenly  the  quiet  air  was  shattered  by  a  shriek  which 
would  have  done  credit  to  the  biggest  of  boat-birds  or  of  lions, 
but  which  was — the  children  discovered  after  a  moment's 
panic — only  the  prelude  to  an  outburst  of  grief  on  the  chap 
eron's  part.  When  the  inarticulate  stage  of  her  sorrow  was 
passed,  she  demanded  instant  speech  with  her  mamma.  She 
would  seem  to  have  expressed  a  sentiment  common  to  the  ma 
jority,  for  three  heads  in  Spring  finery  leaned  dejectedly  against 
the  stone  barrier  while  Nathan  removed  his  car-fare  to  con 
tribute  the  remark  that  he  was  growing  hungry.  Patrick  was 
forced  to  seek  aid  in  the  passing  crowd  on  Fifth  Avenue, 
and  in  response  to  his  pleading  eyes  and  the  depression  of  his 
party,  a  lady  of  gentle  aspect  and  "  kind  looks  "  stopped  and 
spoke  to  them. 

"  Indeed,  yes,"  she  reassured  them;  "  this  is  Central  Park." 

"  It  has  looks  off  the  country,"  Eva  commented. 

"  Because  it  is  a  piece  of  the  country,"  the  lady  explained. 

"  Then  we  dassent  to  go,  the  while  we  ain't  none  of  us  got 
no  sickness,"  cried  Eva  forlornly.  "  We're  all,  all  healthy, 
und  the  country  is  for  sick  childrens." 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  well,"  said  the  lady  kindly;  "  but  you 
may  certainly  play  in  the  park.  It  is  meant  for  all  little  child 
ren.  The  gate  is  near.  Just  walk  on  near  this  wall  until 
you  come  to  it." 

It  was  only  a  few  blocks,  and  they  were  soon  in  the  land 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE  31 

of  their  hearts'  desire,  where  were  waving  trees  and  flowering 
shrubs  and  smoothly  sloping  lawns,  and,  framed  in  all  these 
wonders,  a  beautiful  little  water-lake  all  dotted  and  brightened 
by  fleets  of  tiny  boats.  The  pilgrims  from  the  East  Side  stood 
for  a  moment  at  gaze  and  then  bore  down  upon  the  jewel, 
straight  over  grass  and  border,  which  is  a  course  not  lightly 
to  be  followed  within  park  precincts  and  in  view  of  park  police 
men.  The  ensuing  reprimand  dashed  their  spirits  not  at  all 
and  they  were  soon  assembled  close  to  the  margin  of  the  lake, 
where  they  got  entangled  in  guiding  strings  and  drew  to  shore 
many  a  craft,  to  the  disgust  of  many  a  small  owner.  Becky 
Zalmonowsky  stood  so  closely  over  the  lake  that  she  shed  the 
chatelaine  bag  into  its  shallow  depths  and  did  irreparable 
damage  to  her  gala  costume  in  her  attempts  to  "  dibble  "  for  her 
property.  It  was  at  last  recovered,  no  wetter  than  the  toilette 
it  was  intended  to  adorn,  and  the  cousins  Gonorowsky  had 
much  difficulty  in  balking  Becky's  determination  to  remove 
her  gown  and  dry  it  then  and  there. 

Then  Ignatius  Aloysius,  the  exacting,  remembered  garrulously 
that  he  had  as  yet  seen  nothing  of  the  rubber-neck-boat-birds 
and  suggested  that  they  were  even  now  graciously  "  hollering 
like  an'thing  "  in  some  remote  fastness  of  the  park.  So  Patrick 
gave  commands  and  the  march 'was  resumed  with  bliss  now 
beaming  on  all  the  faces  so  lately  clouded.  Every  turn  of  the 
endless  walks  brought  new  wonders  to  these  little  ones  who 
were  gazing  for  the  first  time  upon  the  great  world  of  growing 
things  of  which  Miss  Bailey  had  so  often  told  them.  The 
policeman's  warning  had  been  explicit  and  they  followed  de 
corously  in  the  paths  and  picked  none  of  the  flowers  which 
as  Eva  had  heard  of  old,  were  sticking  right  up  out  of  the 
ground.  But  other  flowers  there  were  dangling  high  or  low  on 
tree  or  shrub,  while  here  and  there  across  the  grass  a  bird  came 
hopping  or  a  squirrel  ran.  But  the  pilgrims  never  swerved. 
Full  well  they  knew  that  these  delights  were  not  for  such  as 
they. 


32  AMERICANS  ALL 

It  was,  therefore,  with  surprise  and  concern  that  they  at  last 
debouched  upon  a  wide  green  space  where  a  flag  waved  at  the 
top  of  a  towering  pole;  for,  behold,  the  grass  was  covered  thick 
with  children,  with  here  and  there  a  beneficent  policeman 
looking  serenely  on. 

"  Dast  we  walk  on  it?  "  cried  Morris.  "  Oh,  Patrick,  dast 
we?" 

"  Ask  the  cop,"  Nathan  suggested.  It  was  his  first  speech 
for  an  hour,  for  Becky's  misadventure  with  the  chatelaine  bag 
and  the  water-lake  had  made  him  more  than  ever  sure  that 
his  own  method  of  safe-keeping  was  the  best. 

"  Ask  him  yerself,"  retorted  Patrick.  He  had  quite  intended 
to  accost  a  large  policeman,  who  would  of  course  recognize  and 
revere  the  buttons  of  Mr.  Brennan  pere,  but  a  commander 
cannot  well  accept  the  advice  of  his  subordinates.  But  Nathan 
was  once  more  beyond  the  power  of  speech,  and  it  was  Morris 
Mogilewsky  who  asked  for  and  obtained  permission  to  walk 
on  God's  green  earth.  With  little  spurts  of  running  and 
tentative  jumps  to  test  its  spring,  they  crossed  Peacock  Lawn 
to  the  grateful  shade  of  the  trees  at  its  further  edge  and  there 
disposed  themselves  upon  the  ground  and  ate  their  luncheon. 
Nathan  Spiderwitz  waited  until  Sadie  had  finished  and  then 
entrusted  the  five  gleaming  pennies  to  her  care  while  he  wildly 
bolted  an  appetizing  combination  of  dark  brown  bread  and  un 
cooked  eel. 

Becky  reposed  flat  upon  the  chatelaine  bag  and  waved  her 
still  damp  shoes  exultantly.  Eva  lay,  face  downward  beside  her, 
and  peered  wonderingly  deep  into  the  roots  of  things. 

"  Don't  it  smells  nice!"  she  gloated.  "Don't  it  looks 
nice!  My,  ain't  we  havin'  the  party- time!  " 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  said  Patrick,  in  careful  imitation  of 
his  mother's  hostess  manner.  "  I'm  pleased  to  see  you,  I'm 
sure." 

"  The  Central  Park  is  awful  pretty,"  Sadie  soliloquized  as 
she  lay  on  her  back  and  watched  the  waving  branches  and 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE  33 

blue  sky  far  above.  "  Awful  pretty!  I  likes  we  should  live 
here  all  the  time." 

"  Well,"  began  Ignatius  Aloysius  Diamantstein,  in  slight 
disparagement  of  his  rival's  powers  as  a  cicerone;  "well,  I 
ain't  seen  no  lions,  nor  no  rubber-neck-boat-birds.  Und  we  ain't 
had  no  rides  on  nothings.  Und  I  ain't  heard  no  hollers 
neither." 

As  if  in  answer  to  this  criticism  there  arose,  upon  the  road 
beyond  the  trees,  a  snorting,  panting  noise,  growing  moment 
arily  louder  and  culminating,  just  as  East  Side  nerves  were 
strained  to  breaking  point,  in  a  long  hoarse  and  terrifying  yell. 
There  was  a  flash  of  red,  a  cloud  of  dust,  three  other  toots  of 
agony,  and  the  thing  was  gone.  Gone,  too,  were  the  explorers 
and  gone  their  peaceful  rest.  To  a  distant  end  of  the  field  they 
flew,  led  by  the  panic-stricken  chaperon,  and  followed  by  Eva 
and  Patrick,  hand  in  hand,  he  making  show  of  bravery  he 
was  far  from  feeling,  and  she  frankly  terrified.  In  a  secluded 
corner,  near  the  restaurant,  the  chaperon  was  run  to  earth  by 
her  breathless  charges: 

"  I  seen  the  lion,"  she  panted  over  and  over.  "  I  seen  the 
fierce,  big  red  lion,  und  I  don't  know  where  is  my  mamma." 

Patrick  saw  that  one  of  the  attractions  had  failed  to 
attract,  so  he  tried  another. 

"  Le's  go  an'  see  the  cows,"  he  proposed.  "  Don't  you  know 
the  po'try  piece  Miss  Bailey  learned  us  about  cows?  " 

Again  the  emotional  chaperon  interrupted.  "  I'm  loving 
much  mit  Miss  Bailey,  too,"  she  wailed.  "  Und  I  don't  know 
where  is  she  neither."  But  the  pride  of  learning  upheld  the 
others  and  they  chanted  in  sing-song  chorus,  swaying  rhythmi 
cally  the  while  from  leg  to  leg: 


"  The  friendly  cow  all  red  and  white, 

I  love  with  all  my  heart : 
She  gives  me  cream  with  all  her  might, 

To  eat  with  apple-tart  Robert  Louis  Stevenson." 


34  AMERICANS  ALL 

Becky's  tears  ceased.  "  Be  there  cows  in  the  Central  Park?  " 
she  demanded. 

"  Sure,"  said  Patrick. 

"  Und  what  kind  from  cream  will  he  give  us?    Ice  cream?  " 

"  Sure,"  said  Patrick  again. 

"  Let's  go/'  cried  the  emotional  chaperon.  A  passing 
stranger  turned  the  band  in  the  general  direction  of  the  menag 
erie  and  the  reality  of  the  cow  brought  the  whole  "  memory 
gem  "  into  strange  and  undreamed  reality. 

Gaily  they  set  out  through  new  and  always  beautiful  ways; 
through  tunnels  where  feet  and  voices  rang  with  ghostly  boom- 
ings  most  pleasant  to  the  ear;  over  bridges  whence  they  saw — in 
partial  proof  of  Isaac  Borrachsohn's  veracity — "mans  und 
ladies  ridin'."  Of  a  surety  they  rode  nothing  more  exciting 
than  horses,  but  that  was,  to  East  Side  eyes,  an  unaccustomed 
sight,  and  Eva  opined  that  it  was  owing,  probably,  to  the 
shortness  of  their  watch  that  they  saw  no  lions  and  tigers 
similarly  amiable.  The  cows,  too,  seemed  far  to  seek,  but  the 
trees  and  grass  and  flowers  were  everywhere.  Through  long 
stretches  of  "  for  sure  country  "  they  picked  their  way,  until 
they  came,  hot  but  happy,  to  a  green  and  shady  summer- 
house  on  a  hill.  There  they  halted  to  rest,  and  there  Ignatius 
Aloysius,  with  questionable  delicacy,  began  to  insist  once  more 
upon  the  full  measure  of  his  bond. 

"  We  ain't  seen  the  rubber-neck-boat-birds,"  he  complained. 
"  Und  we  ain't  had  no  rides  on  nothings." 

"  You  don't  know  what  is  polite,"  cried  Eva,  greatly  shocked 
at  this  carping  spirit-  in  the  presence  of  a  hard-worked  host. 
"  You  could  to  think  shame  over  how  you  says  somethings  like 
that  on  a  party." 

"  This  ain't  no  party,"  Ignatius  Aloysius  retorted.  "  It's  a 
'scursion.  To  a  party  somebody  gives  you  what  you  should 
eat;  to  a  'scursion  you  brings  it.  Und  anyway,  we  ain't  had 
no  rides." 

"  But  we  heard  a  holler,"  the  guest  of  honor  reminded  him. 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE  35 

"We  heard  a  fierce,  big  holler  from  a  lion.  I  don't  know 
do  I  need  a  ride  on  something  what  hollers.  I  could  to  have 
a  fraid  maybe." 

"  Ye  wouldn't  be  afraid  on  the  boats  when  I  hold  yer  hand, 
would  ye?  "  Patrick  anxiously  inquired,  and  Eva  shyly  ad 
mitted  that,  thus  supported,  she  might  not  be  dismayed.  To 
work  off  the  pride  and  joy  caused  by  this  avowal,  Patrick 
mounted  the  broad  seat  extending  all  around  the  summer- 
house  and  began  to  walk  clatteringly  upon  it.  The  other 
pilgrims  followed  suit  and  the  whole  party  stamped  and 
danced  with  infinite  enjoyment.  Suddenly  the  leader  halted 
with  a  loud  cry  of  triumph  and  pointed  grandly  out  through 
one  of  the  wistaria-hung  openings.  Not  De  Soto  on  the  banks 
of  the  Mississippi  nor  Balboa  above  the  Pacific  could  have  felt 
more  victorious  than  Patrick  did  as  he  announced: 

"There's  the  water-lake!" 

His  followers  closed  in  upon  him  so  impetuously  that  he 
was  borne  down  under  their  charge  and  fell  ignominiously  out 
on  the  grass.  But  he  was  hardly  missed,  he  had  served  his  pur 
pose.  For  there,  beyond  the  rocks  and  lawns  and  red  japonicas, 
lay  the  blue  and  shining  water-lake  in  its  confining  banks 
of  green.  And  upon  its  softly  quivering  surface  floated  the 
rubber-neck-boat-birds,  white  and  sweetly  silent  instead  of 
red  and  screaming — and  the  superlative  length  and  arched 
beauty  of  their  necks  surpassed  the  wildest  of  Ikey  Borrach- 
sohn's  descriptions.  And  relying  upon  the  strength  and  polite 
ness  of  these  wondrous  birds  there  were  indeed  "  mans  und 
ladies  und  boys  und  little  girls  "  embarking,  disembarking,  and 
placidly  weaving  in  and  out  and  round  about  through  scenes  of 
hidden  but  undoubted  beauty. 

Over  rocks  and  grass  the  army  charged  towards  bliss  un 
utterable,  strewing  their  path  with  overturned  and  howling 
babies  of  prosperity  who,  clumsy  from  many  nurses  and  much 
pampering,  failed  to  make  way.  Past  all  barriers,  accidental 
ur  official,  they  pressed,  nor  halted  to  draw  rein  or  breath  until 


36  AMERICANS  ALL 

they  were  established,  beatified,  upon  the  waiting  swan-boat. 

Three  minutes  later  they  were  standing  outside  the  railings 
of  the  landing  and  regarding,  through  welling  tears,  the  placid 
lake,  the  sunny  slopes  of  grass  and  tree,  the  brilliant  sky  and 
the  gleaming  rubber-neck-boat-bird  which,  as  Ikey  described, 
"  made  go  its  legs,"  but  only,  as  he  had  omitted  to  mention, 
for  money.  So  there  they  stood,  seven  sorrowful  little  figures 
engulfed  in  the  ray  less  despair  of  childhood  and  the  bitter 
ness  of  poverty.  For  these  were  the  children  of  the  poor, 
and  full  well  they  knew  that  money  was  not  to  be  diverted 
from  its  mission:  that  car-fare  could  not  be  squandered  on 
bliss. 

Becky's  woe  was  so  strong  and  loud  that  the  bitter  wailings 
of  the  others  served  merely  as  its  background.  But  Patrick 
cared  not  at  all  for  the  general  despair.  His  remorseful  eyes 
never  strayed  from  the  bowed  figure  of  Eva  Gonorowsky,  for 
whose  pleasure  and  honor  he  had  striven  so  long  and  vainly. 
Slowly  she  conquered  her  sobs,  slowly  she  raised  her  daisy- 
decked  head,  deliberately  she  blew  her  small  pink  nose,  softly 
she  approached  her  conquered  knight,  gently  and  all  untruth 
fully  she  faltered,  with  yearning  eyes  on  the  majestic  swans: 

"  Don't  you  have  no  sad  feelings,  Patrick.  I  ain't  got  none. 
Ain't  I  told  you  from  long,  how  I  don't  need  no  rubber-neck- 
boat-bird  rides?  I  don't  need  'em!  I  don't  need  'em!  I  " — 
with  a  sob  of  passionate  longing — "  I'm  got  all  times  a  awful 
scare  over  'em.  Let's  go  home,  Patrick.  Becky  needs  she 
should  see  her  mamma,  und  I  guess  I  needs  my  mamma  too." 


MYRA  KELLY 

Is  it  necessary  to  say  that  she  was  Irish?  The  humor,  the 
sympathy,  the  quick  understanding,  the  tenderness,  that  play 
through  all  her  stories  are  the  birthright  of  the  children  of 
Erin.  Myra  Kelly  was  born  in  Dublin,  Ireland.  Her  father 
was  Dr.  John  E.  Kelly,  a  well-known  surgeon.  When  Myra 
was  little  more  than  a  baby,  the  family  came  to  New  York 
City.  Here  she  was  educated  at  the  Horace  Mann  High 
School,  and  afterwards  at  Teachers  College,  a  department  of 
Columbia  University,  New  York.  She  graduated  from 
Teachers  College  in  1899.  Her  first  school  was  in  the  primary 
department  of  Public  School  147,  on  East  Broadway,  New 
York,  where  she  taught  from  1899  to  1901.  Here  she  met 
all  the  "  little  aliens,"  the  Morris  and  Isidore,  Yetta  and  Eva  of 
her  stories,  and  won  her  way  into  their  hearts.  To  her  friends 
she  would  sometimes  tell  of  these  children,  with  their  odd  ideas 
of  life  and  their  dialect.  "  Why  don't  you  write  these  stories 
down?  "  they  asked  her,  and  at  last  she  sat  down  and  wrote 
her  first  story,  "  A  Christmas  Present  for  a  Lady."  She  had  no 
knowledge  of  editorial  methods,  so  she  made  four  copies  of  the 
story  and  sent  them  to  four  different  magazines.  Two  of  them 
returned  the  story,  and  two  of  them  accepted  it,  much  to  her 
embarrassment.  The  two  acceptances  came  from  McC lure's 
Magazine  and  The  Century.  As  McClure's  replied  first  she 
gave  the  story  to  them,  and  most  of  her  other  stories  were 
first  published  in  that  magazine. 

When  they  appeared  in  book  form,  they  were  welcomed  by 
readers  all  over  the  country.  Even  the  President  of  the  United 
States  wrote  to  express  his  thanks  to  her,  in  the  following 
letter: 

37 


38  AMERICANS  ALL 

Oyster  Bay,  N.  Y. 

July,  26,  1905. 
M|y  dear  Miss  Kelly:— 

Mrs.  Roosevelt  and  I  and  most  of  the  children  know  your  very 
amusing  and  very  pathetic  accounts  of  East  Side  school  children 
almost  by  heart,  and  I  really  think  you  must  let  me  write  and 
thank  you  for  them.  When  I  was  Police  Commissioner  I  quite 
often  went  to  the  Houston  Street  public  school,  and  was  immensely 
impressed  by  what  I  saw  there.  I  thought  there  were  a  good  many 
Miss  Baileys  there,  and  the  work  they  were  doing  among  their 
scholars  (who  were  largely  of  Russian-Jewish  parentage  like  the 
children  you  write  of)  was  very  much  like  what  your  Miss  Bailey 
has  done. 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

Theodore  Roosevelt. 

After  two  years  of  school  room  work,  Miss  Kelly's  health 
broke  down,  and  she  retired  from  teaching,  although  she  served 
as  critic  teacher  in  the  Speyer  School,  Teachers  College,  for 
a  year  longer.  One  of  the  persons  who  had  read  her  books 
with  delight  was  Allen  Macnaughton.  Soon  after  he  met 
Miss  Kelly,  and  in  1905  they  were  married.  They  lived  for 
a  time  at  Oldchester  Village,  New  Jersey,  in  the  Orange  moun 
tains,  in  a  colony  of  literary  people  which  her  husband  was 
interested  in  establishing.  After  several  years  of  very  success 
ful  literary  work,  she  developed  tuberculosis.  She  went  to 
Torquay,  England,  in  search  of  health,  and  died  there  March 
31,  1910. 

Her  works  include  the  following  titles:  Little  Citizens;  The 
Isle  of  Dreams;  Wards  of  Liberty;  Rosnah;  the  Golden  Sea 
son;  Little  Aliens;  New  Faces.  One  of  the  leading  magazines 
speaks  of  her  as  the  creator  of  a  new  dialect. 


HERO  WORSHIP 


Most  of  us  are  hero-worshippers  at  some  time  of  our  lives. 
The  boy  finds  his  hero  in  the  baseball  player  or  athlete,  the 
girl  in  the  matinee  idol,  or  the  "  movie  "  star.  These  objects 
of  worship  are  not  always  worthy  of  the  adoration  they  in 
spire,  but  this  does  not  matter  greatly,  since  their  worshippers 
seldom  find  it  out.  There  is  something  fine  in  absolute  loyalty 
to  an  ideal,  even  if  the  ideal  is  far  from  reality.  "  The  Tenor  " 
is  the  story  of  a  famous  singer  and  two  of  his  devoted  ad 
mirers. 


THE  TENOR  * 

BY 
H.    C.    BUNNER 

IT  was  a  dim,  quiet  room  in  an  old-fashioned  New  York 
house,  with  windows  opening  upon  a  garden  that  was  trim  and 
attractive,  even  in  its  wintry  days — for  the  rose-bushes 
were  all  bundled  up  in  straw  ulsters.  The  room  was  ample, 
yet  it  had  a  cosy  air.  Its  dark  hangings  suggested  comfort 
and  luxury,  with  no  hint  of  gloom.  A  hundred  pretty  trifles 
told  that  it  was  a  young  girl's  room:  in  the  deep  alcove  nestled 
her  dainty  white  bed,  draped  with  creamy  lace  and  ribbons. 

"I  was  so  afraid  that  I'd  be  late!  " 

The  door  opened,  and  two  pretty  girls  came  in,  one  in  hat 
and  furs,  the  other  in  a  modest  house  dress.  The  girl  in  the 
furs,  who  had  been  afraid  that  she  would  be  late,  was  fair, 
with  a  bright  color  in  her  cheeks,  and  an  eager,  intent  look 
in  her  clear  brown  eyes.  The  other  girl  was  dark-eyed  and 
dark-haired,  dreamy,  with  a  soft,  warm  dusky  color  in  her 
face.  They  were  two  very  pretty  girls  indeed — or,  rather,  two 
girls  about  to  be  very  pretty,  for  neither  one  was  eighteen  years 
old. 

The  dark  girl  glanced  at  a  little  porcelain  clock. 

"  You  are  in  time,  dear,"  she  said,  and  helped  her  com 
panion  to  take  off  her  wraps. 

Then  the  two  girls  crossed  the  room,  and  with  a  caressing 
and  almost  a  reverent  touch,  the  dark  girl  opened  the  doors 
of  a  little  carven  cabinet  that  hung  upon  the  wall,  above  a 

*  From  "  Stones  of  H.  C.  Bunner,"  copyright,  1890,  1896,  by 
Alice  L.  Bunner;  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  By  per 
mission  of  the  publishers. 


42  AMERICANS  ALL 

small  table  covered  with  a  delicate  white  cloth.  In  its 
depths,  framed  in  a  mat  of  odorous  double  violets,  stood  the 
photograph  of  the  face  of  a  handsome  man  of  forty — a  face 
crowned  with  clustering  black  locks,  from  beneath  which  a 
pair  of  large,  mournful  eyes  looked  out  with  something  like 
religious  fervor  in  their  rapt  gaze.  It  was  the  face  of  a 
foreigner. 

"O  Esther!  "  cried  the  other  girl,  "how  beautifully  you 
have  dressed  him  to-day!  " 

"I  wanted  to  get  more,"  Esther  said;  "but  I've  spent 
almost  all  my  allowance — and  violets  do  cost  so  shockingly. 
Come,  now — "  with  another  glance  at  the  clock — "  don't  let's 
lose  any  more  time,  Louise  dear." 

She  brought  a  couple  of  tiny  candles  in  Sevres  candlesticks, 
and  two  little  silver  saucers,  in  which  she  lit  fragrant  pastilles. 
As  the  pale  gray  smoke  arose,  floating  in  faint  wreaths  and 
spirals  before  the  enshrined  photograph,  Louise  sat  down  and 
gazed  intently  upon  the  little  altar.  Esther  went  to  her  piano 
and  watched  the  clock.  It  struck  two.  Her  hands  fell  softly 
on  the  keys,  and,  studying  a  printed  program  in  front  of 
her,  she  began  to  play  an  overture.  After  the  overture  she 
played  one  or  two  pieces  of  the  regular  concert  stock.  Then  she 
paused. 

"  I  can't  play  the  Tschaikowski  piece." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  the  other.  "  Let  us  wait  for  him  in 
silence." 

The  hands  of  the  clock  pointed  to  2:29.  Each  girl  drew 
a  quick  breath,  and  then  the  one  at  the  piano  began  to  sing 
softly,  almost  inaudibly,  "  les  Rameaux  "  in  a  transcription 
for  tenor  of  Faure's  great  song.  When  it  was  ended,  she  played 
and  sang  the  encore.  Then,  with  her  fingers  touching  the 
keys  so  softly  that  they  awakened  only  an  echo-like  sound, 
she  ran  over  the  numbers  that  intervened  between  the  first 
tenor  solo  and  the  second.  Then  she  sang  again,  as  softly  as 
before. 


THE  TENOR  43 

The  fair-haired  girl  sat  by  the  little  table,  gazing  intently  on 
the  picture.  Her  great  eyes  seemed  to  devour  it,  and  yet  there 
was  something  absent-minded,  speculative,  in  her  steady  look. 
She  did  not  speak  until  Esther  played  the  last  number  on  the 
program. 

"  He  had  three  encores  for  that  last  Saturday,"  she  said,  and 
Esther  played  the  three  encores. 

Then  they  closed  the  piano  and  the  little  cabinet,  and  ex 
changed  an  innocent  girlish  kiss,  and  Louise  went  out,  and 
found  her  father's  coupe  waiting  for  her,  and  was  driven  away 
to  her  great,  gloomy,  brown-stone  home  near  Central  Park. 

Louise  Laura  Latimer  and  Esther  Van  Guilder  were  the 
only  children  of  two  families  which,  though  they  were  possessed 
of  the  three  "  Rs  "  which  are  all  and  more  than  are  needed  to 
insure  admission  to  New  York  society — Riches,  Respectability 
and  Religion — yet  were  not  in  Society;  or,  at  least,  in  the 
society  that  calls  itself  Society.  This  was  not  because  Society 
was  not  willing  to  have  them.  It  was  because  they  thought  the 
world  too  worldly.  Perhaps  this  was  one  reason — although  the 
social  horizon  of  the  two  families  had  expanded  somewhat  as 
the  girls  grew  up — why  Louise  and  Esther,  who  had  been  play 
mates  from  their  nursery  days,  and  had  grown  up  to  be  two 
uncommonly  sentimental,  fanciful,  enthusiastically  morbid  girls, 
were  to  be  found  spending  a  bright  Winter  afternoon  holding 
a  ceremonial  service  of  worship  before  the  photograph  of  a 
fashionable  French  tenor. 

It  happened  to  be  a  French  tenor  whom  they  were  wor 
shiping.  It  might  as  well  have  been  anybody  or  any  thing  else. 
They  were  both  at  that  period  of  girlish  growth  when  the 
young  female  bosom  is  torn  by  a  hysterical  craving  to  worship 
something — any  thing.  They  had  been  studying  music  and 
they  had  selected  the  tenor  who  was  the  sensation  of  the 
hour  in  New  York  for  their  idol.  They  had  heard  him  only 
on  the  concert  stage;  they  were  never  likely  to  see  him  nearer. 
But  it  was  a  mere  matter  of  chance  that  the  idol  was  not  a 


44  AMERICANS  ALL 

Boston  Transcendentalist,  a  Popular  Preacher,  a  Faith-Cure 
Healer,  or  a  ringleted  old  maid  with  advanced  ideas  of  Woman's 
Mission.  The  ceremonies  might  have  been  different  in  form: 
the  worship  would  have  been  the  same. 

M.  Hyppolite  Remy  was  certainly  the  musical  hero  of  the 
hour.  When  his  advance  notices  first  appeared,  the  New  York 
critics,  who  are  a  singularly  unconfiding,  incredulous  lot,  were 
inclined  to  discount  his  European  reputation. 

When  they  learned  that  M.  Remy  was  not  only  a  great 
artist,  but  a  man  whose  character  was  "  wholly  free  from  that 
deplorable  laxity  which  is  so  often  a  blot  on  the  proud  escut 
cheon  of  his  noble  profession;"  that  he  had  married  an  Ameri 
can  lady ;  that  he  had  "  embraced  the  Protestant  religion  " — 
no  sect  was  specified,  possibly  to  avoid  jealousy — and  that 
his  health  was  delicate,  they  were  moved  to  suspect  that  he 
might  have  to  ask  that  allowances  be  made  for  his  singing. 
But  when  he  arrived,  his  triumph  was  complete.  He  was  as 
handsome  as  his  picture,  if  he  was  a  trifle  short,  a  shade  too 
stout. 

He  was  a  Singer  of  genius,  too;  with  a  splendid  voice  and 
a  sound  method — on  the  whole.  It  was  before  the  days  of  the 
Wagner  autocracy,  and  perhaps  his  tremolo  passed  unchallenged 
as  it  could  not  now;  but  he  was  a  great  artist.  He  knew  his 
business  as  well  as  his  advance-agent  knew  his.  The  Remy 
Concerts  were  a  splendid  success.  Reserved  seats,  $5.  For 
the  Series  of  Six,  $25. 

On  the  following  Monday,  Esther  Van  Guilder  returned 
her  friend's  call,  in  response  to  an  urgent  invitation,  despatched 
by  mail.  Louise  Latimer's  great  bare  room  was  incapable  of 
transmutation  into  a  cosy  nest  of  a  boudoir.  There  was  too 
much  of  its  heavy  raw  silk  furniture — too  much  of  its  vast, 
sarcophagus-like  bed — too  much  of  its  upholsterer's  elegance, 
regardless  of  cost — and  taste.  An  enlargement  from  an  am- 
brotype  of  the  original  Latimer,  as  he  arrived  in  New  York 


THE  TENOR  45 

from  New  Hampshire,  and  a  photograph  of  a  "  child  subject " 
by  Millais,  were  all  her  works  of  art.  It  was  not  to  be  doubted 
that  they  had  climbed  upstairs  from  a  front  parlor  of  an  earlier 
stage  of  social  development.  The  farm-house  was  six  genera 
tions  behind  Esther;  two  behind  Louise. 

Esther  found  her  friend  in  a  state  of  almost  feverish  excite 
ment.  Her  eyes  shone;  the  color  burned  high  on  her  clear 
cheeks. 

"  You  never  would  guess  what  I've  done,  dear!  "  she  began, 
as  soon  as  they  were  alone  in  the  big  room.  "I'm  going  to 
see  him — to  speak  to  him — Esther  1 "  Her  voice  was  solemnly 
hushed,  "  to  serve  him!  " 

"  Oh,  Louise!  what  do  you  mean?  " 

"  To  serve  him — with  my  own  hands !  To — to — help  him 
on  with  his  coat — I  don't  know — to  do  something  that  a  ser 
vant  does — anything,  so  that  I  can  say  that  once,  once  only, 
just  for  an  hour,  I  have  been  near  him,  been  of  use  to  him, 
served  him  in  one  little  thing  as  loyally  as  he  serves  OUR 
ART." 

Music  was  THEIR  art,  and  no  capitals  could  tell  how  much 
it  was  theirs  or  how  much  of  an  art  it  was. 

"Louise,"  demanded  Esther,  with  a  frightened  look,  "are 
you  crazy?  " 

"No.  Read  this!  "  She  handed  the  other  girl  a  clipping 
from  the  advertising  columns  of  a  newspaper. 

CHAMBERMAID     AND     WAITRESS.— WANTED,     A     NEAT 
and    willing    girl,   for   light    work.       Apply   to   Mme.    Remy,    The 
Midlothian, Broadway. 

"  I  saw  it  just  by  accident,  Saturday,  after  I  left  you.  Papa 
had  left  his  paper  in  the  coupe.  I  was  going  up  to  my  First 
Aid  to  the  Injured  Class — it's  at  four  o'clock  now,  you  know. 
I  made  up  my  mind  right  off — it  came  to  me  like  an  inspiration. 
I  just  waited  until  it  came  to  the  place  where  they  showed 
how  to  tie  up  arteries,  and  then  I  slipped  out.  Lots  of  the 
girls  slip  out  in  the  horrid  parts,  you  know.  And  then,  in- 


46  AMERICANS  ALL 

stead  of  waiting  in  the  ante-room,  I  put  on  my  wrap,  and 
pulled  the  hood  over  my  head  and  ran  off  to  the  Midlothian — 
it's  just  around  the  corner,  you  know.  And  I  saw  his  wife." 

"  What  was  she  like?  "  queried  Esther,  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Sort  of  horrid — actressy.  She  had  a 
pink  silk  wrapper  with  swansdown  all  over  it — at  four  o'clock, 
think!  I  was  awfully  frightened  when  I  got  there;  but  it 
wasn't  the  least  trouble.  She  hardly  looked  at  me,  and  she 
engaged  me  right  off.  She  just  asked  me  if  I  was  willing  to 
do  a  whole  lot  of  things — I  forgot  what  they  were — and  where 
I'd  worked  before.  I  said  at  Mrs.  Barcalow's." 

"  Mrs.  Barcalow's?  " 

"  Why,  yes — my  Aunt  Amanda,  don't  you  know — up  in 
Framingham.  I  always  have  to  wash  the  teacups  when  I  go 
there.  Aunty  says  that  everybody  has  got  to  do  something 
in  her  house." 

"  Oh,  Louise!  "  cried  her  friend,  in  shocked  admiration; 
"how  can  you  think  of  such  things?  " 

"  Well,  I  did.  And  she — his  wife,  you  know —  just  said: 
c  Oh,  I  suppose  you'll  do  as  well  as  any  one — all  you  girls  are 
alike.' " 

"  But  did  she  really  take  you  for  a — servant?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  indeed.  It  was  raining.  I  had  that  old  ulster 
on,  you  know.  I'm  to  go  at  twelve  o'clock  next  Saturday." 

"  But,  Louise!  "  cried  Esther,  aghast,  "  you  don't  truly  mean 
to  go!  " 

"I  do !  "  cried  Louise,  beaming  triumphantly. 

"  Oh,  Louise! " 

11  Now,  listen,  dear,"  said  Miss  Latimer,  with  the  decision  of 
an  enthusiastic  young  lady  with  New  England  blood  in  her 
veins.  "  Don't  say  a  word  till  I  tell  you  what  my  plan  is.  I've 
thought  it  all  out,  and  you've  got  to  help  me." 

Esther  shuddered. 

"  You  foolish  child!  "  cried  Louise.  Her  eyes  were  sparkling: 
she  was  in  a  state  of  ecstatic  excitement;  she  could  see  no 


THE  TENOR  47 

obstacles  to  the  carrying  out  of  her  plan.  "  You  don't  think 
I  mean  to  stay  there,  do  you?  I'm  just  going  at  twelve  o'clock, 
and  at  four  he  comes  back  from  the  matinee,  and  at  five 
o'clock  I'm  going  to  slip  on  my  things  and  run  downstairs, 
and  have  you  waiting  for  me  in  the  coupe,  and  off  we  go.  Now 
do  you  see?  " 

It  took  some  time  to  bring  Esther's  less  venturesome  spirit 
up  to  the  point  of  assisting  in  this  undertaking;  but  she  began, 
after  a  while,  to  feel  the  delights  of  vicarious  enterprise,  and  in 
the  end  the  two  girls,  their  cheeks  flushed,  their  eyes  shining 
feverishly,  their  voices  tremulous  with  childish  eagerness,  re 
solved  themselves  into  a  committee  of  ways  and  means;  for 
they  were  two  well-guarded  young  women,  and  to  engineer 
five  hours  of  liberty  was  difficult  to  the  verge  of  impossibility. 
However,  there  is  a  financial  manoeuvre  known  as  "  kiting 
checks,"  whereby  A  exchanges  a  check  with  B  and  B  swaps 
with  A  again,  playing  an  imaginary  balance  against  Time  and 
the  Clearing  House;  and  by  a  similar  scheme,  which  an  acute 
student  of  social  ethics  has  called  "  kiting  calls,"  the  girls 
found  that  they  could  make  Saturday  afternoon  their  own, 
without  one  glance  from  the  watchful  eyes  of  Esther's  mother 
or  Louise's  aunt — Louise  had  only  an  aunt  to  reckon  with. 

"  And,  oh,  Esther!  "  cried  the  bolder  of  the  conspirators, 
"  I've  thought  of  a  trunk — of  course  I've  got  to  have  a  trunk, 
or  she  would  ask  me  where  it  was,  and  I  couldn't  tell  her  a 
fib.  Don't  you  remember  the  French  maid  who  died  three 
days  after  she  came  here?  Her  trunk  is  up  in  the  store-room 
still,  and  I  don't  believe  anybody  will  ever  come  for  it — it's 
been  there  seven  years  now.  Let's  go  up  and  look  at  it." 

The  girls  romped  upstairs  to  the  great  unused  upper  story, 
where  heaps  of  household  rubbish  obscured  the  dusty  half- 
windows.  In  a  corner,  behind  Louise's  baby  chair  and  an  un 
fashionable  hat-rack  of  the  old  steering-wheel  pattern,  they 
found  the  little  brown-painted  tin  trunk,  corded  up  with  clothes 
line. 


48  AMERICANS  ALL 

"Louise!  "  said  Esther,  hastily,  "what  did  you  tell  her 
your  name  was?  " 

"  I  just  said  '  Louise'." 

Esther  pointed  to  the  name  painted  on  the  trunk, 

LOUISE  LEVY 

"  It  is  the  hand  of  Providence,"  she  said.  "  Somehow,  now, 
I'm  sure  you're  quite  right  to  go." 

And  neither  of  these  conscientious  young  ladies  reflected 
for  one  minute  on  the  discomfort  which  might  be  occasioned  to 
Madame  Remy  by  the  defection  of  her  new  servant  a  half-hour 
before  dinner-time  on  Saturday  night. 

"  Oh,  child,  it's  you,  is  it?  "  was  Mme.  Remy's  greeting  at 
twelve  o'clock  on  Saturday.  "Well,  you're  punctual — and 
you  look  clean.  Now,  are  you  going  to  break  my  dishes  or 
are  you  going  to  steal  my  rings?  Well,  we'll  find  out  soon 
enough.  Your  trunk's  up  in  your  room.  Go  up  to  the  ser 
vant's  quarters — right  at  the  top  of  those  stairs  there.  Ask 
for  the  room  that  belongs  to  apartment  n.  You  are  to  room 
with  their  girl." 

Louise  was  glad  of  a  moment's  respite.  She  had  taken  the 
plunge;  she  was  determined  to  go  through  to  the  end.  But 
her  heart  would  beat  and  her  hands  would  tremble.  She 
climbed  up  six  flights  of  winding  stairs,  and  found  herself 
weak  and  dizzy  when  she  reached  the  top  and  gazed  around  her. 
She  was  in  a  great  half-story  room,  eighty  feet  square.  The 
most  of  it  was  filled  with  heaps  of  old  furniture  and  bedding, 
rolls  of  carpet,  of  canvas,  of  oilcloth,  and  odds  and  ends  of 
discard  of  unused  household  gear — the  dust  thick  over  all.  A 
little  space  had  been  left  around  three  sides,  to  give  access  to 
three  rows  of  cell-like  rooms,  in  each  of  which  the  ceiling  sloped 
from  the  very  door  to  a  tiny  window  at  the  level  of  the  floor. 
In  each  room  was  a  bed,  a  bureau  that  served  for  wash-stand, 
a  small  looking-glass,  and  one  or  two  trunks.  Women's  dresses 


THE  TENOR  49 

hung  on  the  whitewashed  walls.  She  found  No.  n,  threw  off, 
desperately,  her  hat  and  jacket,  and  sunk  down  on  the  little 
brown  tin  trunk,  all  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Hello,"  called  a  cheery  voice.  She  looked  up  and  saw  a 
girl  in  a  dirty  calico  dress. 

"  Just  come?  "  inquired  this  person,  with  agreeable  infor 
mality.  She  was  a  good-looking  large  girl,  with  red  hair 
and  bright  cheeks.  She  leaned  against  the  door-post  and 
polished  her  finger-nails  with  a  little  brush.  Her  hands  were 
shapely. 

"  Ain't  got  onto  the  stair-climbing  racket  yet,  eh?  You'll 
get  used  to  it. '  Louise  Levy,'  "  she  read  the  name  on  the  trunk. 
"  You  don't  look  like  a  sheeny.  Can't  tell  nothin'  'bout  names, 
can  you?  My  name's  Slattery.  You'd  think  I  was  Irish, 
wouldn't  you?  Well,  I'm  straight  Ne'  York.  I'd  be  dead  before 
I  was  Irish.  Born  here.  Ninth  Ward  an'  next  to  an  engine 
house.  How's  that?  There's  white  Jews,  too.  I  worked  for 
one,  pickin'  sealskins  down  in  Prince  Street.  Most  took  the 
lungs  out  of  me.  But  that  wasn't  why  I  shook  the  biz.  It 
queered  my  hands — see?  I'm  goin'  to  be  married  in  the  Fall 
to  a  German  gentleman.  He  ain't  so  Dutch  when  you  know 
him,  though.  He's  a  grocer.  Drivin'  now;  but  he  buys  out 
the  boss  in  the  Fall.  How's  that?  He's  dead  stuck  on  my 
hooks,  an'  I  have  to  keep  'em  lookin'  good.  I  come  here  be 
cause  the  work  was  light.  I  don't  have  to  work — only  to  be 
doin'  something  see?  Only  got  five  halls  and  the  lamps.  You 
got  a  fam'ly  job,  I  s'pose?  I  wouldn't  have  that.  I  don't 
mind  the  Sooprintendent ;  but  I'd  be  dead  before  I'd  be  bossed 
by  a  woman,  see?  Say,  what  fam'ly  did  you  say  you  was 
with?  " 

The  stream  of  talk  had  acted  like  a  nerve-tonic  on  Louise. 
She  was  able  to  answer: 

"  M— Mr.  Remy." 

"  Ramy?— oh,  lord!  Got  the  job  with  His  Tonsils?  Well, 
you  won't  keep  it  long.  They're  meaner 'n  three  balls,  see? 


50  AMERICANS  ALL 

Rent  their  room  up  here  and  chip  in  with  eleven.  Their 
girls  don't  never  stay.  Well,  I  got  to  step,  or  the  Sooprinten- 
dent'll  be  borin'  my  ear.  Well — so  long!  " 

But  Louise  had  fled  down  the  stairs.  "  His  Tonsils  "  rang 
in  her  ears.  What  blasphemy!  What  sacrilege!  She  could 
scarcely  pretend  to  listen  to  Mme.  Remy's  first  instructions. 

The  household  was  parsimonious.  Louise  washed  the  cater 
er's  dishes — he  made  a  reduction  in  his  price.  Thus  she 
learned  that  a  late  breakfast  took  the  place  of  luncheon.  She 
began  to  feel  what  this  meant.  The  beds  had  been  made; 
but  there  was  work  enough.  She  helped  Mme.  Remy  to  sponge 
a  heap  of  faded  finery — her  dresses.  If  they  had  been  his 
coats!  Louise  bent  her  hot  face  over  the  tawdry  silks  and 
satins,  and  clasped  her  parboiled  little  finger-tips  over  the 
wet  sponge.  At  half-past  three  Mme.  Remy  broke  the  silence. 

"  We  must  get  ready  for  Musseer,"  she  said.  An  ecstatic 
joy  filled  Louise's  being.  The  hour  of  her  reward  was  at 
hand. 

Getting  ready  for  "  Musseer  "  proved  to  be  an  appalling 
process.  First  they  brewed  what  Mme.  Remy  called  a  "  teaze 
Ann.  "  After  the  tisane,  a  host  of  strange  foreign  drugs  and 
cosmetics  were  marshalled  in  order.  Then  water  was  set  to 
heat  on  a  gas-stove.  Then  a  little  table  was  neatly  set. 

"  Musseer  has  his  dinner  at  half-past  four,"  Madame  ex 
plained.  "  I  don't  take  mine  till  he's  laid  down  and  I've  got 
him  off  to  the  concert.  There,  he's  coming  now.  Sometimes 
he  comes  home  pretty  nervous.  If  he's  nervous,  don't  you  go 
and  make  a  fuss,  do  you  hear,  child?  " 

The  door  opened,  and  Musseer  entered,  wrapped  in  a  huge 
frogged  overcoat.  There  was  no  doubt  that  he  was  nervous. 
He  cast  his  hat  upon  the  floor,  as  if  he  were  Jove  dashing  a 
thunderbolt.  Fire  flashed  from  his  eyes.  He  advanced  upon 
his  wife  and  thrust  a  newspaper  in  her  face — a  little  pinky 
sheet,  a  notorious  blackmailing  publication. 

"Zees,"  he  cried,  "is  your  work!  " 


THE  TENOR  51 

"  What  is  it  now,  Hipleet?  "  demanded  Mme.  Remy. 

"  Vot  it  ees?  "  shrieked  the  tenor.  "  It  ees  ze  history  of 
how  zey  have  heest  me  at  Nice!  It  ees  all  zair — how  I  have 
been  heest — in  zis  sacre  sheet — in  zis  handkairchif  of  infamy! 
And  it  ees  you  zat  have  told  it  to  zat  devil  of  a  Rastignac — 
traitresse!  " 

"  Now,  Hipleet,"  pleaded  his  wife,  "  if  I  can't  learn  enough 
French  to  talk  with  you,  how  am  I  going  to  tell  Rastignac 
about  your  being  hissed?  " 

This  reasoning  silenced  Mr.  Remy  for  an  instant — an  instant 
only. 

"You  vood  have  done  it!  "  he  cried,  sticking  out  his  chin 
and  thrusting  his  face  forward. 

"  Well,  I  didn't,"  said  Madame,  "  and  nobody  reads  that 
thing,  any  way.  Now,  don't  mind  it,  and  let  me  get  your 
things  off,  or  you'll  be  catching  cold." 

Mr.  Remy  yielded  at  last  to  the  necessity  of  self-preservation, 
and  permitted  his  wife  to  remove  his  frogged  overcoat,  and 
to  unwind  him  from  a  system  of  silk  wraps  to  which  the 
Gordian  knot  was  a  slip-noose.  This  done,  he  sat  down  before 
the  dressing-case,  and  Mme.  Remy,  after  tying  a  bib  around 
his  neck,  proceeded  to  dress  his  hair  and  put  brilliantine  on 
his  moustache.  Her  husband  enlivened  the  operation  by  read 
ing  from  the  pinky  paper. 

"  It  ees  not  gen-air-al-lee  known — zat  zees  dees-tin-guished 
tenor  vos  heest  on  ze  pob-lic  staidj  at  Nice — in  ze  year — " 

Louise  leaned  against  the  wall,  sick,  faint  and  frightened, 
with  a  strange  sense  of  shame  and  degradation  at  her  heart. 
At  last  the  tenor's  eye  fell  on  her. 

"  Anozzair  eediot?  "  he  inquired. 

"She  ain't  very  bright,  Hipleet,"  replied  his  wife;  "but  I 
guess  she'll  do.  Louise,  open  the  door — there's  the  caterer." 

Louise  placed  the  dishes  upon  the  table  mechanically.  The 
tenor  sat  himself  at  the  board,  and  tucked  a  napkin  in  his 
neck. 


52  AMERICANS  ALL 

"  And  how  did  the  Benediction  Song  go  this  afternoon?  " 
inquired  his  wife. 

"Ze  Benediction?  Ah!  One  encore.  One  on-lee.  Zese 
pigs  of  Ameericains.  I  t'row  my  pairls  biffo'  swine.  Chops 
once  more!  You  vant  to  mordair  me?  Vat  do  zis  mean, 
madame?  You  ar-r-re  in  lig  wiz  my  enemies.  All  ze  vorlt  is 
against  ze  ar-r-r-teest!  " 

The  storm  that  followed  made  the  first  seem  a  zephyr.  The 
tenor  exhausted  his  execratory  vocabulary  in  French  and  Eng 
lish.  At  last,  by  way  of  a  dramatic  finale,  he  seized  the  plate 
of  chops  and  flung  it  from  him.  He  aimed  at  the  wall;  but 
Frenchmen  do  not  pitch  well.  With  a  ring  and  a  crash,  plate 
and  chops  went  through  the  broad  window-pane.  In  the  mo 
ment  of  stricken  speechlessness  that  followed,  the  sound  of 
the  final  smash  came  softly  up  from  the  sidewalk. 

"  Ah-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah !  " 

The  tenor  rose  to  his  feet  with  the  howl  of  an  anguished 
hyena. 

"Oh,  good  gracious!  "  cried  his  wife;  "he's  going  to  have 
one  of  his  creezes — his  creezes  de  nare!  " 

He  did  have  a  crise  de  nerjs.  "Ten  dollair!  "  he  yelled, 
"for  ten  dollair  of  glass!  "  He  tore  his  pomaded  hair;  he 
tore  off  his  bib  and  his  neck-tie,  and  for  three  minutes  without 
cessation  he  shrieked  wildly  and  unintelligibly.  It  was  possible 
to  make  out,  however,  that  "  arteest  "  and  "  ten  dollair  "  were 
the  themes  of  the  improvisation.  Finally  he  sank  ex 
hausted  into  the  chair,  and  his  white-faced  wife  rushed  to  his 
side. 

"  Louise!  "  .she  cried,  "  get  the  foot- tub  out  of  the  closet 
while  I  spray  his  throat,  or  he  can't  sing  a  note.  Fill  it  up 
with  warm  water — 102  degrees — there's  the  thermometer — 
and  bathe  his  feet." 

Trembling  from  head  to  foot,  Louise  obeyed  her  orders, 
and  brought  the  foot-tub,  full  of  steaming  water.  Then  she 
knelt  down  and  began  to  serve  the  maestro  for  the  first  time. 


THE  TENOR  53 

She  took  off  his  shoes.  Then  she  looked  at  his  socks.  Could 
she  do  it? 

"Eediot!  "  gasped  the  sufferer,  "make  haste!     I  die!  " 

"  Hold  your  mouth  open,  dear,"  said  Madame,  "  I  haven't 
half  sprayed  you." 

"Ah!  you! "  cried  the  tenor.  "Cat!  Devil!  It  ees  you  zat 
have  killed  me!  "  And  moved  by  an  access  of  blind  rage,  he 
extended  his  arm,  and  thrust  his  wife  violently  from  him. 

Louise  rose  to  her  feet,  with  a  hard  set,  good  old  New 
England  look  on  her  face.  She  lifted  the  tub  of  water  to 
the  level  of  her  breast,  and  then  she  inverted  it  on  the  tenor's 
head.  For  one  instant  she  gazed  at  the  deluge,  and  at  the 
bath-tub  balanced  on  the  maestro's  skull  like  a  helmet  several 
sizes  too  large — then  she  fled  like  the  wind. 

Once  in  the  servant's  quarters,  she  snatched  her  hat  and 
jacket.  From  below  came  mad  yells  of  rage. 

"I  kill  hare!  give  me  my  knife — give  me  my  riwolvare! 
Au  secours!  Assassin!  " 

Miss  Slattery  appeared  in  the  doorway,  still  polishing  her 
nails. 

"  What  have  you  done  to  His  Tonsils?  "  she  inquired.  "  He's 
pretty  hot,  this  trip." 

"  How  can  I  get  away  from  here?  "  cried  Louise. 

Miss  Slattery  pointed  to  a  small  door.  Louise  rushed  down 
a  long  stairway — another — and  yet  others — through  a  great 
room  where  there  was  a  smell  of  cooking  and  a  noise  of  fires — 
past  white-capped  cooks  and  scullions — through  a  long  stone 
corridor,  and  out  into  the  street.  She  cried  aloud  as  she  saw 
Esther's  face  at  the  window  of  the  coupe. 

She  drove  home — cured. 


H.  C.  BUNNER 

Henry  Cuyler  Bunner  was  his  full  name,  H.  C.  Bunner  was 
the  way  he  always  signed  his  writings,  and  "  Bunner  "  was 
his  name  to  his  friends,  and  even  to  his  wife.  He  was  born  in 
Oswego,  New  York,  August  3,  1855.  His  parents  soon  moved 
to  New  York  City,  and  Bunner  was  educated  in  the  public 
schools  there.  Then  he  became  a  clerk  in  a  business  house, 
but  this  did  not  satisfy  him,  and  he  began  to  write  for  news 
papers,  finally  getting  a  position  on  the  Arcadian,  a  short 
lived  journal.  In  1877  the  publishers  of  Puck,  a  humorous 
weekly  printed  in  the  German  language,  decided  to  issue  an 
edition  in  English,  and  made  Bunner  assistant  editor.  It 
was  a  happy  choice.  He  soon  became  editor-in-chief,  and 
under  his  direction  the  paper  became  not  only  the  best  humor 
ous  journal  of  its  time,  but  a  powerful  influence  in  politics  as 
well.  Bunner  wrote  not  only  editorials,  humorous  verse,  short 
stories,  and  titles  for  pictures,  but  often  suggested  the  cartoons, 
which  were  an  important  feature  of  the  paper. 

Outside  the  office  he  was  a  delightful  conversationalist.  His 
friends  Brander  Matthews,  Lawrence  Hutton  and  others  speak 
of  his  ready  wit,  his  kindness  of  heart,  and  his  wonderfully 
varied  store  of  information.  He  was  a  constant  reader,  and  a 
good  memory  enabled  him  to  retain  what  he  read.  It  is  said 
that  one  could  hardly  name  a  poem  that  he  had  not  read,  and 
it  was  odds  but  that  he  could  quote  its  best  lines.  Next  to 
reading,  his  chief  pleasure  was  in  wandering  about  odd  corners 
of  the  city,  especially  the  foreign  quarters.  He  knew  all  the 
queer  little  restaurants  and  queer  little  shops  in  these  places. 

His  first  literary  work  of  note  was  a  volume  of  poems, 
happily  entitled  Airs  from  Arcady.  It  contains  verses  both 
grave  and  gay:  one  of  the  cleverest  is  called  "Home,  Sweet 

54 


H.  C.  BUNNER  55 

Home,  with  Variations."  He  writes  the  poem  first  in  the 
style  of  Swinburne,  then  of  Bret  Harte,  then  of  Austin  Dobson, 
then  of  Oliver  Goldsmith  and  finally  of  Walt  Whitman.  The 
book  also  showed  his  skill  in  the  use  of  French  forms  of 
verse,  as  in  this  dainty  triolet: 

A  PITCHER  OF  MIGNONETTE 

A  pitcher  of  mignonette 

In  a  tenement's  highest  casement : 
Queer  sort  of  flower-pot — yet 
That  pitcher  of  mignonette 
Is  a  garden  in  heaven  set, 

To  the  little  sick  child  in  the  basement— 
The  pitcher  of  mignonette 

In  the  tenement's  highest  casement. 

The  last  poem  in  the  book,  called  "  To  Her,"  was  addressed 
to  Miss  Alice  Learned,  whom  he  married  soon  after,  and 
to  whom,  as  "A.  L.  B."  all  his  later  books  were  dedicated. 
Soon  after  his  marriage  he  moved  to  Nutley,  New  Jersey.  Here 
he  was  not  only  the  editor  and  man  of  letters  but  the  neighbor 
who  could  always  be  called  on  in  time  of  need,  and  the  citizen 
who  took  an  active  part  in  the  community  life,  helping  to 
organize  the  Village  Improvement  Society,  one  of  the  first 
of  its  kind. 

He  followed  up  his  first  volume  by  two  short  novels,  The 
Midge  and  The  Story  of  a  New  York  House.  Then  he  under 
took  the  writing  of  the  short  story,  his  first  book  being  Zadoc 
Pine  and  other  Stories.  The  title  story  of  this  book  contains  a 
very  humorous  and  faithful  delineation  of  a  New  Englander  who 
is  transplanted  to  a  New  Jersey  suburb.  Soon  after  writing 
this  he  began  to  read  the  short  stories  of  Guy  de  Maupassant. 
He  admired  them  so  much  that  he  half  translated,  half  adapted 
a  number  of  them,  and  published  them  under  the  title  Made  in 
France.  Then  he  tried  writing  stories  of  his  own,  in  the 
manner  of  de  Maupassant,  and  produced  in  Short  Sixes  a 


56  AMERICANS  ALL 

group  of  stories  which  are  models  of  concise  narrative,  crisply 
told,  artistic  in  form,  and  often  with  a  touch  of  surprise  at  the 
end.  Other  volumes  of  short  stories  are  More  Short  Sixes,  and 
Love  in  Old  Cloathes.  Jersey  Street  and  Jersey  Lane  was  a 
book  which  grew  out  of  his  Nutley  life.  He  also  wrote  a 
play,  The  Tower  of  Babel,  which  was  produced  by  Marie  Wain- 
wright  in  1883.  He  died  at  Nutley,  May  n,  1896.  He  was 
one  of  the  first  American  authors  to  develop  the  short  story 
as  we  know  it  to-day,  and  few  of  his  successors  have  surpassed 
him  in  the  light,  sure  style  and  the  firmness  of  construction 
which  are  characteristic  of  his  later  work. 


SOCIETY  IN  OUR  TOWN 


Life  in  a  small  town,  which  means  any  place  of  less  than  a 
hundred  thousand  people,  is  more  interesting  than  life  in  a 
big  city.  Both  places  have  their  notables,  but  in  the  small 
town  you  know  these  people,  in  the  city  you  only  read  about 
them  in  the  papers.  IN  OUR  TGWN  is  a  series  of  portraits  of 
the  people  of  a  typical  small  city  of  the  Middle  West,  seen 
through  the  keen  eyes  of  a  newspaper  editor.  This  story  tells 
how  the  question  of  the  social  leadership  of  the  town  was  finally 
settled. 


THE  PASSING  OF  PRISCILLA  WINTHROP 

BY 

WILLIAM  ALLEN  WHITE 

WHAT  a  dreary  waste  life  in  our  office  must  have  been 
before  Miss  Larrabee  came  to  us  to  edit  a  society  page  for  the 
paper!  To  be  sure  we  had  known  in  a  vague  way  that  there 
were  lines  of  social  cleavage  in  the  town;  that  there  were  whist 
clubs,  and  dancing  clubs  and  women's  clubs,  and  in  a  general 
way  that  the  women  who  composed  these  clubs  made  up  our  best 
society,  and  that  those  benighted  souls  beyond  the  pale  of 
these  clubs  were  out  of  the  caste.  We  knew  that  certain 
persons  whose  names  were  always  handed  in  on  the  lists  of 
guests  at  parties  were  what  we  called  "howling  swells,"  but 
it  remained  for  Miss  Larrabee  to  sort  out  ten  or  a  dozen 
of  these  "howling  swells,"  who  belonged  to  the  strictest 
social  caste  in  town,  and  call  them  "  howling  dervishes."  In 
cidentally  it  may  be  said  that  both  Miss  Larrabee  and  her 
mother  were  dervishes,  but  that  did  not  prevent  her  from 
making  sport  of  them.  From  Miss  Larrabee  we  learned  that 
the  high  priestess  of  the  howling  dervishes  of  our  society  was 
Mrs.  Mortimer  Conklin,  known  by  the  sisterhood  of  the 
mosque  as  Priscilla  Winthrop.  We  in  our  office  had  never 
heard  her  called  by  that  name,  but  Miss  Larrabee  explained, 
rather  elaborately,  that  unless  one  was  permitted  to  speak 
of  Mrs.  Conklin  thus,  one  was  quite  beyond  the  hope  iof  a 
social  heaven. 

In  the  first  place,  Priscilla  Winthrop  was  Mrs.  Conklin's 
maiden  name;  in  the  second  place,  it  links  her  with  the  Colonial 
Puritan  stock  of  which  she  is  so  justly  proud — being  scornful  of 

59 


60  AMERICANS  ALL 

mere  Daughters  of  the  Revolution — and  finally,  though  Mrs. 
Conklin  is  a  grandmother,  her  maiden  name  seems  to  preserve 
the  sweet,  vague  illusion  of  girlhood  which  Mrs.  Conklin  always 
carries  about  her  like  the  shadow  of  a  dream.  And  Miss 
Larrabee  punctuated  this  with  a  wink  which  we  took  to  be  a 
quotation  mark,  and  she  went  on  with  her  work.  So  we  knew 
we  had  been  listening  to  the  language  used  in  the  temple. 

Our  town  was  organized  fifty  years  ago  by  Abolitionists 
from  New  England,  and  twenty  years  ago,  when  Alphabetical 
Morrison  was  getting  out  one  of  the  numerous  boom  editions 
of  his  real  estate  circular,  he  printed  an  historical  article  therein 
in  which  he  said  that  Priscilla  Winthrop  was  the  first  white  child 
born  on  the  town  site.  Her  father  was  territorial  judge,  after 
ward  member  of  the  State  Senate,  and  after  ten  years  spent  in 
mining  in  the  far  West,  died  in  the  seventies,  the  richest  man 
in  the  State.  It  was  known  that  he  left  Priscilla,  his  only  child, 
half  a  million  dollars  in  government  bonds. 

She  was  the  first  girl  in  our  town  to  go  away  to  school. 
Naturally,  she  went  to  Oberlin,  famous  in  those  days  for 
admitting  colored  students.  But  she  finished  her  education 
at  Vassar,  and  came  back  so  much  of  a  young  lady  that  the 
town  could  hardly  contain  her.  She  married  Mortimer  Conklin, 
took  him  to  the  Centennial  on  a  wedding  trip,  came  home,  re 
built  her  father's  house,  covering  it  with  towers  and  minarets 
and  steeples,  and  scroll-saw  fretwork,  and  christened  it  Win 
throp  Hall.  She  erected  a  store  building  on  Main  Street,  that 
Mortimer  might  have  a  luxurious  office  on  the  second  floor, 
and  then  settled  down  to  the  serious  business  of  life,  which 
was  building  up  a  titled  aristocracy  in  a  Kansas  town. 

The  Conklin  children  were  never  sent  to  the  public  schools, 
but  had  a  governess,  yet  Mortimer  Conklin,  who  was  always 
alert  for  the  call,  could  not  understand  why  the  people  never 
summoned  him  to  any  office  of  honor  or  trust.  He  kept  his 
brass  signboard  polished,  went  to  his  office  punctually  every 
morning  at  ten  o'clock,  and  returned  home  to  dinner  at  five, 


THE  PASSING  OF  PRISCILLA  WINTHROP        61 

and  made  clients  wait  ten  minutes  in  the  outer  office  before  they 
could  see  him — at  least  so  both  of  them  say,  and  there  were 
no  others  in  all  the  years.  He  shaved  every  day,  wore  a  frock- 
coat  and  a  high  hat  to  church — where  for  ten  years  he  was  the 
only  male  member  of  the  Episcopalian  flock — and  Mrs.  Conklin 
told  the  women  that  altogether  he  was  a  credit  to  his  sex  and 
his  family — a  remark  which  has  passed  about  ribaldly  in  town 
for  a  dozen  years,  though  Mortimer  Conklin  never  knew  that  he 
was  the  subject  of  a  town  joke.  Once  he  rebuked  a  man  in 
the  barber  shop  for  speaking  of  feminine  extravagance,  and  told 
the  shop  that  he  did  not  stint  his  wife,  that  when  she  asked  him 
for  money  he  always  gave  it  to  her  without  question,  and  that 
if  she  wanted  a  dress  he  told  her  to  buy  it  and  send  the  bill 
to  him.  And  we  are  such  a  polite  people  that  no  one  in  the 
crowded  shop  laughed — until  Mortimer  Conklin  went  out. 

Of  course  at  the  office  we  have  known  for  twenty-five  years 
what  the  men  thought  of  Mortimer,  but  not  until  Miss  Larra- 
bee  joined  the  force  did  we  know  that  among  the  women 
Mrs.  Conklin  was  considered  an  oracle.  Miss  Larrabee  said 
that  her  mother  has  a  legend  that  when  Priscilla  Winthrop 
brought  home  from  Boston  the  first  sealskin  sacque  ever  worn 
in  town  she  gave  a  party  for  it,  and  it  lay  in  its  box  on  the 
big  walnut  bureau  in  the  spare  room  of  the  Conklin  mansion  in 
solemn  state,  while  seventy-five  women  salaamed  to  it.  After 
that  Priscilla  Winthrop  was  the  town  authority  on  sealskins. 
When  any  member  of  the  town  nobility  had  a  new  sealskin, 
she  took  it  humbly  to  Priscilla  Winthrop  to  pass  judgment  upon 
it.  If  Priscilla  said  it  was  London-dyed,  its  owner  pranced 
away  on  clouds  of  glory;  but  if  she  said  it  was  American-dyed, 
its  owner  crawled  away  in  shame,  and  when  one  admired  the 
disgraced  garment,  the  martyred  owner  smiled  with  resigned 
sweetness  and  said  humbly:  "Yes — but  it's  only  American- 
dyed,  you  know." 

No  dervish  ever  questioned  the  curse  of  the  priestess.  The 
wnly  time  a  revolt  was  imminent  was  in  the  autumn  of  1884 


62  AMERICANS  ALL 

when  the  Conklins  returned  from  their  season  at  Duxbury,  Mas 
sachusetts,  and  Mrs.  Conklin  took  up  the  carpets  in  her  house, 
heroically  sold  all  of  them  at  the  second-hand  store,  put  in 
new  waxed  floors  and  spread  down  rugs.  The  town  uprose  and 
hooted;  the  outcasts  and  barbarians  in  the  Methodists  and 
Baptist  Missionary  Societies  rocked  the  Conklin  home  with 
their  merriment,  and  ten  dervishes  with  set  faces  bravely  met 
the  onslaughts  of  the  savages;  but  among  themselves  in  hushed 
whispers,  behind  locked  doors,  the  faithful  wondered  if  there 
was  not  a  mistake  some  place.  However,  when  Priscilla  Win- 
throp  assured  them  that  in  all  the  best  homes  in  Boston  rugs 
were  replacing  carpets,  their  souls  were  at  peace. 

All  this  time  we  at  the  office  knew  nothing  of  what  was 
going  on.  We  knew  that  the  Conklins  devoted  considerable 
time  to  society;  but  Alphabetical  Morrison  explained  that  by 
calling  attention  to  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Conklin  had  prema 
turely  gray  hair.  He  said  a  woman  with  prematurely  gray  hair 
was  as  sure  to  be  a  social  leader  as  a  spotted  horse  is  to  join  a 
circus.  But  now  we  know  that  Colonel  Morrison's  view  was 
a  superficial  one,  for  he  was  probably  deterred  from  going 
deeper  into  the  subject  by  his  dislike  for  Mortimer  Conklin, 
who  invested  a  quarter  of  a  million  dollars  of  the  Winthrop 
fortune  in  the  Wichita  boom,  and  lost  it.  Colonel  Morrison 
naturally  thought  as  long  as  Conklin  was  going  to  lose  that 
money  he  could  have  lost  it  just  as  well  at  home  in  the 
"  Queen  City  of  the  Prairies,"  giving  the  Colonel  a  chance  to 
win.  And  when  Conklin,  protecting  his  equities  in  Wichita,  sent 
a  hundred  thousand  dollars  of  good  money  after  the  quarter 
million  of  bad  money,  Colonel  Morrison's  grief  could  find  no 
words;  though  he  did  find  language  for  his  wrath.  When  the 
Conklins  draped  their  Oriental  rugs  for  airing  every  Saturday 
over  the  veranda  and  portico  railings  of  the  house  front,  Colo 
nel  Morrison  accused  the  Conklins  of  hanging  out  their  stamp 
collection  to  let  the  neighbors  see  it.  This  was  the  only  side 
of  the  rug  question  we  ever  heard  in  our  office  until  Miss  Larra- 


THE  PASSING  OF  PRISCILLA  WINTHROP        63 

bee  came;  then  she  told  us  that  one  of  the  first  requirements 
of  a  howling  dervish  was  to  be  able  to  quote  from  Priscilla 
Winthrop's  Rug  book  from  memory.  The  Rug  book,  the 
China  book  and  the  Old  Furniture  book  were  the  three  sacred 
scrolls  of  the  sect. 

All  this  was  news  to  us.  However,  through  Colonel  Morrison, 
we  had  received  many  years  ago  another  sidelight  on  the  social 
status  of  the  Conklins.  It  came  out  in  this  way:  Time  hon 
ored  custom  in  our  town  allows  the  children  of  a  home  where 
there  is  an  outbreak  of  social  revelry,  whether  a  church  festival 
or  a  meeting  of  the  Cold-Nosed  Whist  Club,  to  line  up  with  the 
neighbor  children  on  the  back  stoop  or  in  the  kitchen,  like 
human  vultures,  waiting  to  lick  the  ice-cream  freezer  and  to 
devour  the  bits  of  cake  and  chicken  salad  that  are  left  over. 
Colonel  Morrison  told  us  that  no  child  was  ever  known  to 
adorn  the  back  yard  of  the  Conklin  home  while  a  social 
cataclysm  was  going  on,  but  that  when  Mrs.  Morrison  enter 
tained  the  Ladies'  Literary  League,  children  from  the  holy 
Conklin  family  went  home  from  his  back  porch  with  their 
faces  smeared  with  chicken  croquettes  and  their  hands  sticky 
with  jellycake. 

This  story  never  gained  general  circulation  in  town,  but  even 
if  it  had  been  known  of  all  men  it  would  not  have  shaken 
the  faith  of  the  devotees.  For  they  did  not  smile  when  Priscilla 
Winthrop  began  to  refer  to  old  Frank  Hagan,  who  came  to  milk 
the  Conklin  cow  and  curry  the  Conklin  horse,  as  "  Frangois, 
the  man,"  or  to  call  the  girl  who  did  the  cooking  and  general 
housework  "  Cosette,  the  maid,"  though  every  one  of  the 
dozen  other  women  in  town  whom  "  Cosette,  the  maid  "  had 
worked  for  knew  that  her  name  was  Fanny  Ropes.  And 
shortly  after  that  the  homes  of  the  rich  and  the  great  over 
on  the  hill  above  Main  Street  began  to  fill  with  Lisettes  and 
Nanons  and  Fanchons,  and  Mrs.  Julia  Neal  Worthington  called 
her  girl  "  Grisette,"  explaining  that  they  had  always  had  a 
Grisette  about  the  house  since  her  mother  first  went  to  house- 


64  AMERICANS  ALL 

keeping  in  Peoria,  Illinois,  and  it  sounded  so  natural  to  hear 
the  name  that  they  always  gave  it  to  a  new  servant.  This 
story  came  to  the  office  through  the  Young  Prince,  who  chuckled 
over  it  during  the  whole  hour  he  consumed  in  writing  Ezra 
Worthington's  obituary. 

Miss  Larrabee  says  that  the  death  of  Ezra  Worthington 
marks  such  a  distinct  epoch  in  the  social  life  of  the  town  that 
we  must  set  down  here — even  if  the  narrative  of  the  Conklins 
halts  for  a  moment — how  the  Worthingtons  rose  and  flourished. 
Julia  Neal,  the  eldest  daughter  of  Thomas  Neal— who  lost  the 
"  O  "  before  his  name  somewhere  between  the  docks  of  Dublin 
and  the  west  bank  of  the  Missouri  River — was  for  ten  years 
principal  of  the  ward  school  in  that  part  of  our  town  known 
as  "  Arkansaw,''  where  her  term  of  service  is  still  remembered 
as  the  "  reign  of  terror."  It  was  said  of  her  then  that  she 
could  whip  any  man  in  the  ward — and  would  do  it  if  he 
gave  her  a  chance.  The  same  manner  which  made  the  neigh 
bors  complain  that  Julia  Neal  carried  her  head  too  high,  later  in 
life,  when  she  had  money  to  back  it,  gave  her  what  the  women 
of  the  State  Federation  called  a  "  regal  air."  In  her  early 
thirties  she  married  Ezra  Worthington,  bachelor,  twenty  years 
her  senior.  Ezra  Worthington  was  at  that  time,  had  been  for 
twenty  years  before,  and  continued  to  be  until  his  death, 
proprietor  of  the  Worthington  Poultry  and  Produce  Com 
mission  Company.  He  was  owner  of  the  stockyards,  president 
of  the  Worthington  State  Bank,  vice-president,  treasurer  and 
general  manager  of  the  Worthington  Mercantile  Company,  and 
owner  of  five  brick  buildings  on  Main  Street.  He  bought  one 
suit  of  clothes  every  five  years  whether  he  needed  it  or  not, 
never  let  go  of  a  dollar  unless  the  Goddess  of  Liberty  on  it  was 
black  in  the  face,  and  died  rated  "  at  $350,000  "  by  all  the 
commercial  agencies  in  the  country.  And  the  first  thing  Mrs. 
Worthington  did  after  the  funeral  was  to  telephone  to  the 
bank  and  ask  them  to  send  her  a  hundred  dollars. 

The  next  important  thing  she  did  was  to  put  a  heavy,  im- 


THE  PASSING  OF  PRISCILLA  WINTHROP        65 

movable  granite  monument  over  the  deceased  so  that  he  would 
not  be  restless,  and  then  she  built  what  is  known  in  our  town  as 
the  Worthington  Palace.  It  makes  the  Markley  mansion  which 
cost  $25,000  look  like  a  barn.  The  Worthingtons  in  the  life 
time  of  Ezra  had  ventured  no  further  into  the  social  whirl  of 
the  town  than  to  entertain  the  new  Presbyterian  preacher  at 
tea,  and  to  lend  their  lawn  to  the  King's  Daughters  for  a 
social,  sending  a  bill  in  to  the  society  for  the  eggs  used  in  the 
coffee  and  the  gasoline  used  in  heating  it. 

To  the  howling  dervishes  who  surrounded  Priscilla  Winthrop 
the  Worthingtons  were  as  mere  Christian  dogs.  It  was  not 
until  three  years  after  Ezra  Worthington's  death  that  the 
glow  of  the  rising  Worthington  sun  began  to  be  seen  in  the 
Winthrop  mosque.  During  those  three  years  Mrs.  Worthington 
had  bought  and  read  four  different  sets  of  the  best  hundred 
books,  had  consumed  the  Chautauque  course,  had  prepared 
and  delivered  for  the  Social  Science  Club,  which  she  organized, 
five  papers  ranging  in  subject  from  the  home  life  of  Rameses  I., 
through  a  Survey  of  the  Forces  Dominating  Michael  Angelo, 
to  the  Influence  of  Esoteric  Buddhism  on  Modern  Political 
Tendencies.  More  than  that,  she  had  been  elected  president  of 
the  City  Federation  clubs  and  being  a  delegate  to  the  Na 
tional  Federation  from  the  State,  was  talked  of  for 
the  State  Federation  Presidency.  When  the  State  Federa 
tion  met  in  our  town,  Mrs.  Worthington  gave  a  reception  for 
the  delegates  in  the  Worthington  Palace,  a  feature  of  which  was 
a  concert  by  a  Kansas  City  organist  on  the  new  pipe-organ 
which  she  had  erected  in  the  music-room  of  her  house,  and 
despite  the  fact  that  the  devotees  of  the  Priscilla  shrine  said 
that  the  crowd  was  distinctly  mixed  and  not  at  all  representa 
tive  of  our  best  social  grace  and  elegance,  there  is  no  question 
but  that  Mrs.  Worthington's  reception  made  a  strong  im 
pression  upon  the  best  local  society.  The  fact  that,  as  Miss 
Larrabee  said,  "  Priscilla  Winthrop  was  so  nice  about  it," 
also  may  be  regarded  as  ominous.  But  the  women  who  lent 


66  AMERICANS  ALL 

Mrs.  Worthington  the  spoons  and  forks  for  the  occasion  were 
delighted,  and  formed  a  phalanx  about  her,  which  made  up 
in  numbers  what  it  might  have  lacked  in  distinction.  Yet 
while  Mrs.  Worthington  was  in  Europe  the  faithful  routed  the 
phalanx,  and  Mrs.  Conklin  returned  from  her  summer  in 
Duxbury  with  half  a  carload  of  old  furniture  from  Harrison 
Sampson's  shop  and  gave  a  talk  to  the  priestesses  of  the  inner 
temple  on  "  Heppelwhite  in  New  England." 

Miss  Larrabee  reported  the  affair  for  our  paper,  giving  the 
small  list  of  guests  and  the  long  line  of  refreshments — which 
included  alligator-pear  salad,  right  out  of  the  Smart  Set  Cook 
Book.  Moreover,  when  Jefferson  appeared  in  Topeka  that 
fall,  Priscilla  Winthrop,  who  had  met  him  through  some  of  her 
Duxbury  friends  in  Boston,  invited  him  to  run  down  for  a 
luncheon  with  her  and  the  members  of  the  royal  family  who 
surrounded  her.  It  was  the  proud  boast  of  the  defenders  of 
the  Winthrop  faith  in  town  that  week,  that  though  twenty- 
four  people  sat  down  to  the  table,  not  only  did  all  the  men 
wear  frock  coats— not  only  did  Uncle  Charlie  Haskins  of 
String  Town  wear  the  old  Winthrop  butler's  livery  without  a 
wrinkle  in  it,  and  with  only  the  faint  odor  of  mothballs  to 
mingle  with  the  perfume  of  the  roses — but  (and  here  the 
voices  of  the  followers  of  the  prophet  dropped  in  awe)  not  a 
single  knife  or  fork  or  spoon  or  napkin  was  borrowed!  After 
that,  when  any  of  the  sisterhood  had  occasion  to  speak  of  the 
absent  Mrs.  Worthington,  whose  house  was  filled  with  new 
mahogany  and  brass  furniture,  they  referred  to  her  as  the 
Duchess  of  Grand  Rapids,  which  gave  them  much  comfort. 

But  joy  is  short-lived.  When  Mrs.  Worthington  came  back 
from  Europe  and  opened  her  house  to  the  City  Federation,  and 
gave  a  colored  lantern-slide  lecture  on  "  An  evening  with  the 
Old  Masters,"  serving  punch  from  her  own  cut-glass  punch  bow! 
instead  of  renting  the  hand-painted  crockery  bowl  of  the 
queensware  store,  the  old  dull  pain  came  back  into  the  hearts 
of  the  dwellers  in  the  inner  circle.  Then  just  in  the  nick 


THE  PASSING  OF  PRISCILLA  WINTHROP        67 

of  time  Mrs.  Conklin  went  to  Kansas  City  and  was  operated  on 
for  appendicitis.  She  came  back  pale  and  interesting,  and 
gave  her  club  a  paper  called  "  Hospital  Days/'  fragrant  with 
iodoform  and  Henley's  poems.  Miss  Larrabee  told  us  that 
it  was  almost  as  pleasant  as  an  operation  on  one's  self  to 
hear  Mrs.  Conklin  tell  about  hers.  And  they  thought  it  was 
rather  brutal — so  Miss  Larrabee  afterward  told  us — when 
Mrs.  Worthington  went  to  the  hospital  one  month,  and  gave 
her  famous  Delsarte  lecture  course  the  next  month,  and  ex 
plained  to  the  women  that  if  she  wasn't  as  heavy  as  she  used 
to  be  it  was  because  she  had  had  everything  cut  out  of  her 
below  the  windpipe.  It  seemed  to  the  temple  priestesses  that, 
considering  what  a  serious  time  poor  dear  Priscilla  Winthrop 
had  gone  through,  Mrs.  Worthington  was  making  light  of 
serious  things. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  formal  rebellion  of  Mrs.  Worth 
ington,  Duchess  of  Grand  Rapids,  and  known  of  the  town's 
nobility  as  the  Pretender,  began  with  the  hospital  contest.  The 
Pretender  planted  her  siege-guns  before  the  walls  of  the  temple 
of  the  priestess,  and  prepared  for  business.  The  first  ma 
neuver  made  by  the  beleaguered  one  was  to  give  a  luncheon 
in  the  mosque,  at  which,  though  it  was  midwinter,  fresh 
tomatoes  and  fresh  strawberries  were  served,  and  a  real 
authoress  from  Boston  talked  upon  John  Fiske's  philosophy 
and,  in  the  presence  of  the  admiring  guests,  made  a  new  kind  of 
salad  dressing  for  the  fresh  lettuce  and  tomatoes.  Thirty  wo 
men  who  watched  her  forgot  what  John  Fiske's  theory  of  the 
cosmos  is,  and  thirty  husbands  who  afterward  ate  that  salad 
dressing  have  learned  to  suffer  and  be  strong.  But  that  salad 
dressing  undermined  the  faith  of  thirty  mere  men — raw  out- 
landers  to  be  sure — in  the  social  omniscience  of  Priscilla  Win 
throp.  Of  course  they  did  not  see  it  made;  the  spell  of  the 
enchantress  was  not  over  them;  but  in  their  homes  they  main 
tained  that  if  Priscilla  Winthrop  didn't  know  any  more  about 
cosmic  philosophy  than  to  pay  a  woman  forty  dollars  to  make 


68  AMERICANS  ALL 

a  salad  dressing  like  that — and  the  whole  town  knows  that  was 
the  price — the  vaunted  town  of  Duxbury,  Massachusetts,  with 
its  old  furniture  and  new  culture,  which  Priscilla  spoke  of  in 
such  repressed  ecstasy,  is  probably  no  better  than  Manitou, 
Colorado,  where  they  get  their  Indian  goods  from  Buffalo,  New 
York. 

Such  is  the  perverse  reasoning  of  man.  And  Mrs.  Wor thing- 
ton,  having  lived  with  considerable  of  a  man  for  fifteen  years, 
hearing  echoes  of  this  sedition,  attacked  the  fortification  of  the 
faithful  on  its  weakest  side.  She  invited  the  thirty  seditious 
husbands  with  their  wives  to  a  beefsteak  dinner,  where  she 
heaped  their  plates  with  planked  sirloin,  garnished  the  sirloin 
with  big,  fat,  fresh  mushrooms,  and  topped  off  the  meal  with  a 
mince  pie  of  her  own  concoction,  which  would  make  a  man 
leave  home  to  follow  it.  She  passed  cigars  at  the  table,  and 
after  the  guests  went  into  the  music-room  ten  old  men  with 
ten  old  fiddles  appeared  and  contested  with  old-fashioned  tunes 
for  a  prize,  after  which  the  company  danced  four  quadrilles 
and  a  Virginia  reel.  The  men  threw  down  their  arms  going 
home  and  went  over  in  a  body  to  the  Pretender.  But 
in  a  social  conflict  men  are  mere  non-combatants,  and 
their  surrender  did  not  seriously  injure  the  cause  that  they 
deserted. 

The  war  went  on  without  abatement.  During  the  spring 
that  followed  the  winter  of  the  beefsteak  dinner  many 
skirmishes,  minor  engagements,  ambushes  and  midnight  raids 
occurred.  But  the  contest  was  not  decisive.  For  purposes  of 
military  drill,  the  defenders  of  the  Winthrop  faith  formed 
themselves  into  a  Whist  Club.  The  Whist  Club  they  called 
it,  just  as  they  spoke  of  Priscilla  Winthrop's  gowns  as  "  the 
black  and  white  one,"  "  the  blue  brocade,"  "  the  white  china 
silk,"  as  if  no  other  black  and  white  or  blue  brocade  or  white 
china  silk  gowns  had  been  created  in  the  world  before  and  could 
not  be  made  again  by  human  hands.  So,  in  the  language  of 
the  inner  sanctuary,  there  was  "  The  Whist  Club,"  to  the  exclu- 


THE  PASSING  OF  PRISCILLA  WINTHROP        69 

sion  of  all  other  possible  human  Whist  Clubs  under  the  stars. 
When  summer  came  the  Whist  Club  fled  as  birds  to  the  moun 
tains — save  Priscilla  Winthrop,  who  went  to  Duxbury,  and 
came  home  with  a  brass  warming-pan  and  a  set  of  Royal 
Copenhagen  china  that  were  set  up  as  holy  objects  in  the 
temple. 

But  Mrs.  Worthington  went  to  the  National  Federation  of 
Women's  Clubs,  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  women  there 
who  wore  clothes  from  Paris,  began  tracing  her  ancestry  back 
to  the  Maryland  Calverts — on  her  mother's  side  of  the  house — 
brought  home  a  membership  in  the  Daughters  of  the  Revolu 
tion,  the  Colonial  Dames  and  a  society  which  referred  to 
Charles  I.  as  "  Charles  Martyr,"  claimed  a  Stuart  as  the 
rightful  king  of  England,  affecting  to  score  the  impudence  of 
King  Edward  in  sitting  on  another's  throne.  More  than  this, 
Mrs.  Worthington  had  secured  the  promise  of  Mrs.  Ellen  Vail 
Montgomery,  Vice-President  of  the  National  Federation,  to 
visit  Cliff  Crest,  as  Mrs.  Worthington  called  the  Worthington 
mansion,  and  she  turned  up  her  nose  at  those  who  worshiped 
under  the  towers,  turrets  and  minarets  of  the  Conklin  mosque, 
and  played  the  hose  of  her  ridicule  on  their  outer  wall  that 
she  might  have  it  spotless  for  a  target  when  she  got  ready  to 
raze  it  with  her  big  gun. 

The  week  that  Ellen  Vail  Montgomery  came  to  town  was 
a  busy  one  for  Miss  Larrabee.  We  turned  over  the  whole 
fourth  page  of  the  paper  to  her  for  a  daily  society  page,  and 
charged  the  Bee  Hive  and  the  White  Front  Dry  Goods  store 
people  double  rates  to  put  their  special  advertisements  on  that 
page  while  the  "  National  Vice,"  as  the  Young  Prince  called 
her,  was  in  town.  For  the  "National  Vice"  brought  the 
State  President  and  two  State  Vices  down,  also  four  District 
Presidents  and  six  District  Vices,  who,  as  Miss  Larrabee  said, 
were  monsters  "  of  so  frightful  mien,  that  to  be  hated  need 
but  to  be  seen."  The  entire  delegation  of  visiting  states- 
women — Vices  and  Virtues  and  Beatitudes  as  we  called  them — 


70  AMERICANS  ALL 

were  entertained  by  Mrs.  Worthington  at  Cliff  Crest,  and  there 
was  so  much  Federation  politics  going  on  in  our  town  that  the 
New  York  Sun  took  five  hundred  words  about  it  by  wire,  and 
Colonel  Alphabetical  Morrison  said  that  with  all  those  dressed- 
up  women  about  he  felt  as  though  he  was  living  in  a  Sunday 
supplement. 

The  third  day  of  the  ghost-dance  at  Cliff  Crest  was  to  be 
the  day  of  the  big  event — as  the  office  parlance  had  it.  The 
ceremonies  began  at  sunrise  with  a  breakfast  to  which  half  a 
dozen  of  the  captains  and  kings  of  the  besieging  host  of  the 
Pretender  were  bidden.  It  seems  to  have  been  a  modest  orgy, 
with  nothing  more  astonishing  than  a  new  gold-band  china  set 
to  dishearten  the  enemy.  By  ten  o'clock  Priscilla  Winthrop 
and  the  Whist  Club  had  recovered  from  that;  but  they  had 
been  asked  to  the  luncheon — the  star  feature  of  the  week's  round 
of  gayety.  It  is  just  as  well  to  be  frank,  and  say  that  they 
went  with  fear  and  trembling.  Panic  and  terror  were  in  their 
ranks,  for  they  knew  a  crisis  was  at  hand.  It  came  when  they 
were  "  ushered  into  the  dining-hall,"  as  our  paper  so  grandly 
put  it,  and  saw  in  the  great  oak-beamed  room  a  table  laid 
on  the  polished  bare  wood — a  table  laid  for  forty-eight  guests, 
with  a  doily  for  every  plate,  and  every  glass,  and  every  salt 
cellar,  and — here  the  mosque  fell  on  the  heads  of  the  howling 
dervishes — forty-eight  soup-spoons,  forty-eight  silver-handled 
knives  and  forks;  forty-eight  butter-spreaders,  forty-eight 
spoons,  forty-eight  salad  forks,  forty-eight  ice-cream  spoons, 
forty-eight  coffee  spoons.  Little  did  it  avail  the  beleaguered 
party  to  peep  slyly  under  the  spoon-handles — the  word 
"  Sterling  "  was  there,  and,  more  than  that,  a  large,  severely 
plain  "  W  "  with  a  crest  glared  up  at  them  from  every  piece  of 
silver.  The  service  had  not  been  rented.  They  knew  their 
case  was  hopeless.  And  so  they  ate  in  peace. 

When  the  meal  was  over  it  was  Mrs.  Ellen  Vail  Mont 
gomery,  in  her  thousand-dollar  gown,  worshiped  by  the  eyes 
of  forty-eight  women,  who  put  her  arm  about  Priscilla  Win- 


THE  PASSING  OF  PRISCILLA  WINTHROP        71 

throp  and  led  her  into  the  conservatory,  where  they  had  "  a 
dear,  sweet  quarter  of  an  hour,"  as  Mrs.  Montgomery  after 
ward  told  her  hostess.  In  that  dear,  sweet  quarter  of  an  hour 
Priscilla  Winthrop  Conklin  unbuckled  her  social  sword  and 
handed  it  to  the  conqueror,  in  that  she  agreed  absolutely  with 
Mrs.  Montgomery  that  Mrs.  Worthington  was  "perfectly 
lovely,"  that  she  was  "  delighted  to  be  of  any  service  "  to  Mrs. 
Worthington;  that  Mrs.  Conklin  "  was  sure  no  one  else  in  our 
town  was  so  admirably  qualified  for  National  Vice  "  as  Mrs. 
Worthington,  and  that  "  it  would  be  such  a  privilege  "  for 
Mrs.  Conklin  to  suggest  Mrs.  Worthington's  name  for  the  office. 
And  then  Mrs.  Montgomery,  "  National  Vice "  and  former 
State  Secretary  for  Vermont  of  the  Colonial  Dames,  kissed  Pris 
cilla  Winthrop  and  they  came  forth  wet-eyed  and  radiant,  hold 
ing  each  other's  hands.  When  the  company  had  been  hushed 
by  the  magic  of  a  State  Vice  and  two  District  Virtues,  Pris 
cilla  Winthrop  rose  and  in  the  sweetest  Kansas  Bostonese  told 
the  ladies  that  she  thought  this  an  eminently  fitting  place  to 
let  the  visiting  ladies  know  how  dearly  our  town  esteems  its 
most  distinguished  townswoman,  Mrs.  Julia  Neal  Worthington, 
and  that  entirely  without  her  solicitation,  indeed  quite  without 
her  knowledge,  the  women  of  our  town — and  she  hoped  of  our 
beloved  State — were  ready  now  to  announce  that  they  were 
unanimous  in  their  wish  that  Mrs.  Worthington  should  be 
National  Vice-President  of  the  Federation  of  Women's  Clubs, 
and  that  she,  the  speaker,  had  entered  the  contest  with  her 
whole  soul  to  bring  this  end  to  pass.  Then  there  was  hand- 
clapping  and  handkerchief  waving  and  some  tears,  and  a  little 
good,  honest  Irish  hugging,  and  in  the  twilight  two  score  of 
women  filed  down  through  the  formal  garden  of  Cliff  Crest  and 
walked  by  twos  and  threes  in  to  the  town. 

There  was  the  usual  clatter  of  home-going  wagons;  lights 
winked  out  of  kitchen  windows;  the  tinkle  of  distant  cow-bells 
was  in  the  air;  on  Main  Street  the  commerce  of  the  town 
was  gently  ebbing,  and  man  and  nature  seemed  utterly  oblivious 


72  AMERICANS  ALL 

of  the  great  event  that  had  happened.  The  course  of  human 
events  was  not  changed;  the  great  world  rolled  on,  while  Pris- 
cilla  Winthrop  went  home  to  a  broken  shrine  to  sit  among  the 
the  potsherds. 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  WHITE 
(Written  by  Mr.  White  especially  for  this  book.) 

I  was  born  in  Emporia,  Kansas,  February  10,  1868,  when 
Emporia  was  a  pioneer  village  a  hundred  miles  from  a  railroad. 
My  father  came  to  Emporia  in  1859  and  my  mother  in  1855. 
She  was  a  pioneer  school  teacher  and  he  a  pioneer  doctor. 
She  was  pure  bred  Irish,  and  he  of  Yankee  lineage  since  1639. 
When  I  was  a  year  old,  Emporia  became  too  effete  for  my 
parents,  and  they  moved  to  El  Dorado,  Kansas.  There  I 
grew  up.  El  Dorado  was  a  town  of  a  dozen  houses,  located 
on  the  banks  of  the  Walnut,  a  sluggish,  but  a  clear  and  beau 
tiful  prairie  stream,  rock  bottom,  and  spring  fed.  I  grew  up 
in  El  Dorado,  a  prairie  village  boy;  went  to  the  large  stone 
school  house  that  "  reared  its  awful  form  "  on  the  hill  above 
the  town  before  there  were  any  two-story  buildings  in  the 
place. 

In  1884,  I  was  graduated  from  the  town  high  school,  and 
went  to  the  College  of  Emporia  for  a  year;  worked  a  year  as 
a  printer's  devil;  learned  something  of  the  printer's  trade;  went 
to  school  for  another  year,  working  in  the  afternoons  and 
Saturdays  at  the  printer's  case;  became  a  reporter  on  the 
Emporia  News;  later  went  to  the  State  University  for  three 
years.  After  more  or  less  studying  and  working  on  the 
Lawrence  papers,  I  went  back  to  El  Dorado  as  manager  of 
the  El  Dorado  Republican  for  State  Senator  T.  B.  Murdock. 

From  the  El  Dorado  Republican,  I  went  to  Kansas  City  to 
work  for  the  Kansas  City  Journal,  and  at  24  became  an  edi 
torial  writer  on  the  Kansas  City  Star.  For  three  years  I 
worked  on  the  Star,  during  which  time  I  married  Miss  Sallie 
Lindsay,  a  Kansas  City,  Kansas,  school  teacher.  In  1895  I 

73 


74  AMERICANS  ALL 

bought  the  Emporia  Gazette  on  credit,  without  a  cent  in 
money,  and  chiefly  with  the  audacity  and  impudence  of  youth. 
It  was  then  a  little  paper;  I  paid  three  thousand  dollars  for 
it,  and  I  have  lived  in  Emporia  ever  since. 

In  1896,  I  published  a  book  of  short  stories  called  The 
Real  Issue;  in  1899,  another  book  of  short  stories  called  The 
Court  of  Boyville.  In  1901,  I  published  a  third  book  of  short 
stories  called  Stratagems  and  Spoils;  in  1906,  In  Our  Town. 
In  1909,  I  published  my  first  novel,  A  Certain  Rich  Man. 
In  1910,  I  published  a  book  of  political  essays  called  The 
Old  Order  Changeth;  in  1916,  a  volume  of  short  stories  en 
titled  God's  Puppets.  A  volume  half  novel  and  half  travel 
sketches  called  The  Martial  Adventures  of  Henry  &  Me  filled 
the  gap  between  my  two  novels;  and  the  second  novel,  In  the 
Heart  of  a  Fool  was  published  in  1918. 

I  am  a  member  of  the  National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Let 
ters;  the  Short  Ballot  Association;  the  International  Peace 
Society;  National  Civic  Federation;  National  Academy  of 
Political  Science;  have  honorary  degrees  from  the  College  of 
Emporia,  Baker  University,  and  Columbia  University  of  the 
City  of  New  York;  was  regent  of  the  Kansas  State  University 
from  1905  to  1913.  Politically  I  am  a  Republican  and  was 
elected  National  Republican  Committeeman  from  Kansas  in 
1912,  but  resigned  to  be  Progressive  National  Committeeman 
from  Kansas  that  year.  I  am  now  a  member  of  the  Repub 
lican  National  Committee  on  Platforms  and  Policies  appointed 
by  the  National  Chairman,  Will  S.  Hays.  I  am  a  trustee  of 
the  College  of  Emporia;  a  member  of  the  Congregational 
Church,  and  of  the  Elks  Lodge,  and  of  no  other  organization. 

WILLIAM  ALLEN  WHITE. 

To  the  above  biography  a  few  items  about  Mr.  White's 
literary  work  may  be  added.  It  was  through  an  editorial  that 
he  first  became  famous.  This  appeared  in  the  Emporia 
Gazette  in  1896,  with  the  title,  "What's  the  matter  with 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  WHITE  75 

Kansas? "  It  contained  so  much  good  sense,  and  was 
written  in  such  vigorous  English  that  it  was  copied  in  news 
papers  all  over  the  country.  Perhaps  no  other  editorial 
ever  brought  such  sudden  recognition  to  its  author.  In  the 
same  year  he  published  his  first  book,  The  Real  Issue,  a  volume 
of  short  stories.  Some  of  them  pictured  the  life  of  a  small 
town,  some  centered  about  politics,  and  some  were  stories  of 
small  boys.  These  three  subjects  were  the  themes  of  most  of 
Mr.  White's  later  books. 

Stratagems  and  Spoils,  a  volume  of  short  stories,  dealt 
chiefly  with  politics,  as  seen  from  the  inside.  In  Our  Town, 
from  which  "  The  Passing  of  Priscilla  Winthrop  "  is  taken,  be 
longs  to  the  studies  of  small-town  life.  His  first  novel,  A  Cer 
tain  Rich  Man,  was  published  in  1909.  Its  theme  is  the 
development  of  an  American  multi-millionaire,  from  his  be 
ginning  as  a  small  business  man  with  a  reputation  for  close 
dealing,  his  success,  his  reaching  out  to  greater  schemes,  grow 
ing  more  and  more  unscrupulous  in  his  methods,  until  at  last 
he  achieves  the  great  wealth  he  had  sought,  but  in  winning  it 
he  loses  his  soul. 

This  book  was  written  during  a  vacation  in  the  Colorado 
mountains.  His  family  were  established  in  a  log  cabin,  and 
he  set  up  a  tent  near  by  for  a  workshop.  This  is  his  account 
of  his  method  of  writing: 

My  working  day  was  supposed  to  begin  at  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  but  the  truth  is  I  seldom  reached  the  tent  before  ten.  Then 
it  took  me  some  time  to  get  down  to  work.  From  then  on  until  late 
in  the  afternoon  I  would  sit  at  my  typewriter,  chew  my  tongue,  and 
pound  away.  Each  night  I  read  to  my  wife  what  I  had  written  that 
day,  and  Mrs.  White  would  criticise  it.  While  my  work  was  redhot 
I  couldn't  get  any  perspective  on  it — each  day's  installment  seemed 
to  me  the  finest  literature  I  had  ever  read.  She  didn't  always  agree 
with  me.  When  she  disapproved  of  anything  I  threw  it  away — 
after  a  row — and  re-wrote  it. 

In  his  next  book,  The  Old  Order  Changeth,  Mr.  White 
turned  aside  from  fiction  to  write  a  series  of  papers  dealing 


76  AMERICANS  ALL 

with  various  reform  movements  in  our  national  life.  He  shows 
how  through  these  much  has  been  done  to  regain  for  the 
people  the  control  of  municipal  and  state  affairs.  The  material 
for  this  book  was  drawn  largely  from  Mr.  White's  participation 
in  political  affairs. 

In  1917  he  was  sent  to  France  as  an  observer  by  the 
American  Red  Cross.  The  lighter  side  of  what  he  saw  there 
was  told  in  The  Martial  Adventures  of  Henry  and  Me.  His 
latest  book  is  a  long  novel,  In  the  Heart  of  a  Fool,  another 
study  of  American  life  of  to-day. 

All  in  all,  he  stands  as  one  of  the  chief  interpreters  in  fiction 
of  the  spirit  of  the  Middle  West, — a  section  of  our  country 
which  some  observers  say  is  the  most  truly  American  part  of 
America. 


A  PAIR  OF  LOVERS 


The  typical  love  story  begins  by  telling  us  how  two  young 
people  jail  in  love,  allows  us  to  eavesdrop  at  a  proposal,  with 
soft  moonlight  effects,  and  then  requests  our  presence  at  a 
wedding.  Or  perhaps  an  elopement  precedes  the  wedding, 
which  gives  us  an  added  thrill.  The  scene  may  be  laid  any 
where,  the  period  may  be  the  present  or  any  time  back  to  the 
Middle  Ages,  (apparently  people  did  not  jail  in  love  at  any 
earlier  periods),  but  the  formula  remains  the  same.  O.  Henry 
wrote  a  love  story  that  does  not  follow  the  formula.  He  called 
it  "  The  Gift  of  the  Magi." 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  MAGI 

BY 

O.  HENRY 

ONE  dollar  and  eighty-seven  cents.  That  was  all.  And  sixty 
cents  of  it  was  in  pennies.  Pennies  saved  one  and  two  at  a 
time  by  bulldozing  the  grocer  and  the  vegetable  man  and  the 
butcher  until  one's  cheeks  burned  with  the  silent  imputation  of 
parsimony  that  such  close  dealing  implied.  Three  times  Delia 
counted  it.  One  dollar  and  eighty-seven  cents.  And  the  next 
day  would  be  Christmas. 

There  was  clearly  nothing  to  do  but  flop  down  on  the  shabby 
little  couch  and  howl.  So  Delia  did  it.  Which  instigates 
the  moral  reflection  that  life  is  made  up  of  sobs,  sniffles,  and 
smiles,  with  sniffles  predominating. 

While  the  mistress  of  the  house  is  gradually  subsiding  from 
the  first  stage  to  the  second,  take  a  look  at  the  home.  A 
furnished  flat  at  $8  per  week.  It  did  not  exactly  beggar 
description,  but  it  certainly  had  that  word  on  the  lookout  for 
the  mendicancy  squad. 

In  the  vestibule  below  was  a  letter-box  into  which  no  letter 
would  go,  and  an  electric  button  from  which  no  mortal  finger 
could  coax  a  ring.  Also  appertaining  thereunto  was  a  card 
bearing  the  name  "  Mr.  James  Dillingham  Young." 

The  "  Dillingham  "  had  been  flung  to  the  breeze  during  a 
former  period  of  prosperity  when  its  possessor  was  being  paid 
$30  per  week.  Now,  when  the  income  was  shrunk  to  $20,  the 
letters  of  "  Dillingham  "  looked  blurred,  as  though  they  were 
thinking  seriously  of  contracting  to  a  modest  and  unassuming 
D.  But  whenever  Mr.  James  Dillingham  Young  came  home 
and  reached  his  flat  above  he  was  called  "  Jim  "  and  greatly 

79 


8o  AMERICANS  ALL 

hugged  by  Mrs.  James  Dillingham  Young,  already  introduced 
to  you  as  Delia.  Which  is  all  very  good. 

Delia  finished  her  cry  and  attended  to  her  cheeks  with  the 
powder  rag.  She  stood  by  the  window  and  looked  out  dully  at 
a  gray  cat  walking  a  gray  fence  in  a  gray  backyard.  To-morrow 
would  be  Christmas  Day,  and  she  had  only  $1.87  with  which 
to  buy  Jim  a  present.  She  had  been  saving  every  penny  she 
could  for  months,  with  this  result.  Twenty  dollars  a  week 
doesn't  go  far.  Expenses  had  been  greater  than  she  had 
calculated.  They  always  are.  Only  $1.87  to  buy  a  present 
for  Jim.  Her  Jim.  Many  a  happy  hour  she  had  spent  planning 
for  something  nice  for  him.  Something  fine  and  rare  and  ster 
ling — something  just  a  little  bit  near  to  being  worthy  of  the 
honor  of  being  owned  by  Jim. 

There  was  a  pier-glass  between  the  windows  of  the  room. 
Perhaps  you  have  seen  a  pier-glass  in  an  $8  flat.  A  very  thin 
and  very  agile  person  may,  by  observing  his  reflection  in  a 
rapid  sequence  of  longitudinal  strips,  obtain  a  fairly  accurate 
conception  of  his  looks.  Delia,  being  slender,  had  mastered 
the  art. 

Suddenly  she  whirled  from  the  window  and  stood  before 
the  glass.  Her  eyes  were  shining  brilliantly,  but  her  face 
had  lost  its  color  within  twenty  seconds.  Rapidly  she  pulled 
down  her  hair  and  let  it  fall  to  its  full  length. 

Now,  there  were  two  possessions  of  the  James  Dillingham 
Youngs  in  which  they  both  took  a  mighty  pride.  One  was 
Jim's  gold  watch  that  had  been  his  father's  and  his  grand 
father's.  The  other  was  Delia's  hair.  Had  the  Queen  of 
Sheba  lived  in  the  flat  across  the  airshaft,  Delia  would  have  let 
her  hair  hang  out  the  window  some  day  to  dry  just  to  de 
preciate  Her  Majesty's  jewels  and  gifts.  Had  King  Solomon 
been  the  janitor,  with  all  his  treasures  piled  up  in  the  basement, 
Jim  would  have  pulled  out  his  watch  every  time  he  passed, 
just  to  see  him  pluck  at  his  beard  from  envy. 

So  now  Delia's  beautiful  hair  fell  about  her,  rippling  and 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  MAGI  81 

shining  like  a  cascade  of  brown  waters.  It  reached  below 
her  knee  and  made  itself  almost  a  garment  for  her.  And  then 
she  did  it  up  again  nervously  and  quickly.  Once  she  faltered 
for  a  minute  and  stood  still  while  a  tear  or  two  splashed  on 
the  worn  red  carpet. 

On  went  her  old  brown  jacket;  on  went  her  old  brown  hat. 
With  a  whirl  of  skirts  and  with  the  brilliant  sparkle  still  in  her 
eyes,  she  fluttered  out  the  door  and  down  the  stairs  to  the 
street. 

Where  she  stopped  the  sign  read:  "  Mme.  Sofronie.  Hair 
Goods  of  All  Kinds."  One  flight  up  Delia  ran,  and  collected 
herself,  panting.  Madame,  large,  too  white,  chilly,  hardly 
looked  the  "  Sofronie." 

"  Will  you  buy  my  hair?  "  asked  Delia. 

"  I  buy  hair,"  said  Madame.  "  Take  yer  hat  off  and  let's 
have  a  sight  at  the  looks  of  it." 

Down  rippled  the  brown  cascade. 

"  Twenty  dollars,"  said  Madame,  lifting  the  mass  with  a 
practised  hand. 

"  Give  it  to  me  quick,"  said  Delia. 

Oh,  and  the  next  two  hours  tripped  by  on  rosy  wings.  For 
get  the  hashed  metaphor.  She  was  ransacking  the  stores  for 
Jim's  present. 

She  found  it  at  last.  It  surely  had  been  made  for  Jim  and 
no  one  else.  There  was  no  other  like  it  in  any  of  the  stores, 
and  she  had  turned  all  of  them  inside  out.  It  was  a  platinum 
fob  chain,  simple  and  chaste  in  design,  properly  proclaiming 
its  value  by  substance  and  not  by  meretricious  ornamentation 
— as  all  good  things  should  do.  It  was  even  worthy  of  The 
Watch. 

As  soon  as  she  saw  it  she  knew  that  it  must  be  Jim's.  It 
was  like  him.  Quietness  and  value — the  description  applied 
to  both.  Twenty-one  dollars  they  took  from  her  for  it,  and 
she  hurried  home  with  the  87  cents.  With  that  chain  on  his 
watch  Jim  might  be  properly  anxious  about  the  time  in  any 


82  AMERICANS  ALL 

company.  Grand  as  the  watch  was,  he  sometimes  looked  at  it 
on  the  sly  on  account  of  the  old  leather  strap  that  he  used  in 
place  of  a  chain. 

When  Delia  reached  home  her  intoxication  gave  way  a 
little  to  prudence  and  reason.  She  got  out  her  curling  irons 
and  lighted  the  gas  and  went  to  work  repairing  the  ravages 
made  by  generosity  added  to  love.  Which  is  always  a  tremen 
dous  task,  dear  friends — a  mammoth  task. 

Within  forty  minutes  her  head  was  covered  with  tiny,  close- 
lying  curls  that  made  her  look  wonderfully  like  a  truant  school 
boy.  She  looked  at  her  reflection  in  the  mirror  long,  carefully, 
and  critically. 

"If  Jim  doesn't  kill  me,"  she  said  to  herself,  "before  he 
takes  a  second  look  at  me,  he'll  say  I  look  like  a  Coney  Island 
chorus  girl.  But  what  could  I  do — oh!  what  could  I  do  with 
a  dollar  and  eighty-seven  cents?  " 

At  seven  o'clock  the  coffee  was  made  and  the  frying-pan 
was  on  the  back  of  the  stove  hot  and  ready  to  cook  the 
chops. 

Jim  was  never  late.  Delia  doubled  the  fob  chain  in  her  hand 
and  sat  on  the  corner  of  the  table  near  the  door  that  he 
always  entered.  Then  she  heard  his  step  on  the  stair  away 
down  on  the  first  flight  and  she  turned  white  for  just  a  mo 
ment.  She  had  a  habit  of  saying  little  silent  prayers  about 
the  simplest  everyday  things,  and  now  she  whispered: 

"  Please  God,  make  him  think  I  am  still  pretty." 

The  door  opened  and  Jim  stepped  in  and  closed  it.  He 
looked  thin  and  very  serious.  Poor  fellow,  he  was  only  twenty- 
two — and  to  be  burdened  with  a  family!  He  needed  a  new 
overcoat  and  he  was  without  gloves. 

Jim  stopped  inside  the  door,  as  immovable  as  a  setter  at 
the  scent  of  quail.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Delia,  and  there 
was  an  expression  in  them  that  she  could  not  read,  and  it 
terrified  her.  It  was  not  anger,  nor  surprise,  nor  disapproval, 
nor  horror,  nor  any  of  the  sentiments  that  she  had  been  pre- 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  MAGI  83 

pared  for.  He  simply  stared  at  her  fixedly  with  that  peculiar 
expression  on  his  face. 

Delia  wriggled  off  the  table  and  went  to  him. 

"  Jim,  darling,"  she  cried,  "  don't  look  at  me  that  way.  I 
had  my  hair  cut  off  and  sold  it  because  I  couldn't  have  lived 
through  Christmas  without  giving  you  a  present.  It'll  grow  out 
again — you  won't  mind,  will  you?  I  just  had  to  do  it.  My 
hair  grows  awfully  fast.  Say  '  Merry  Christmas!  '  Jim,  and 
let's  be  happy.  You  don't  know  what  a  nice — what  a  beautiful, 
nice  gift  I've  got  for  you." 

"  You've  cut  off  your  hair?  "  asked  Jim,  laboriously,  as  if 
he  had  not  arrived  at  that  patent  fact  yet  even  after  the 
hardest  mental  labor. 

"  Cut  it  off  and  sold  it,"  said  Delia.  "  Don't  you  like  me 
just  as  well,  anyhow?  I'm  me  without  my  hair,  ain't  I?  " 

Jim  looked  about  the  room  curiously. 

"  You  say  your  hair  is  gone?  "  he  said,  with  an  air  almost 
of  idiocy. 

"  You  needn't  look  for  it,"  said  Delia.  "  It's  sold,  I  tell 
you — sold  and  gone,  too.  It's  Christmas  Eve,  boy.  Be  good 
to  me,  for  it  went  for  you.  Maybe  the  hairs  of  my  head  were 
numbered,"  she  went  on  with  a  sudden  serious  sweetness,  "  but 
nobody  could  ever  count  my  love  for  you.  Shall  I  put  the  chops 
on,  Jim?  " 

Out  of  his  trance  Jim  seemed  quickly  to  awake.  He  en 
folded  his  Delia.  For  ten  seconds  let  us  regard  with  discreet 
scrutiny  some  inconsequential  object  in  the  other  direction. 
Eight  dollars  a  week  or  a  million  a  year — what  is  the  difference? 
A  mathematician  or  a  wit  would  give  you  the  wrong  answer. 
The  magi  brought  valuable  gifts,  but  that  was  not  among  them. 
This  dark  assertion  will  be  illuminated  later  on. 

Jim  drew  a  package  from  his  overcoat  pocket  and  threw  it 
upon  the  table. 

"  Don't  make  any  mistake,  Dell,"  he  said,  "  about  me.  I 
don't  think  there's  anything  in  the  way  of  a  haircut  or  a  shave 


84  AMERICANS  ALL 

or  a  shampoo  that  could  make  me  like  my  girl  any  less.  But 
if  you'll  unwrap  that  package  you  may  see  why  you  had  me 
going  a  while  at  first." 

White  fingers  and  nimble  tore  at  the  string  and  paper.  And 
then  an  ecstatic  scream  of  joy;  and  then,  alas!  a  quick  femin 
ine  change  to  hysterical  tears  and  wails,  necessitating  the  im 
mediate  employment  of  all  the  comforting  powers  of  the  lord 
of  the  flat. 

For  there  lay  The  combs — the  set  of  combs,  side  and  back, 
that  Delia  had  worshipped  for  long  in  a  Broadway  window. 
Beautiful  combs,  pure  tortoise  shell,  with  jewelled  rims — just 
the  shade  to  wear  in  the  beautiful  vanished  hair.  They  were 
expensive  combs,  she  knew,  and  her  heart  had  simply  craved 
and  yearned  over  them  without  the  least  hope  of  possession. 
And  now,  they  were  hers,  but  the  tresses  that  should  have 
adorned  the  coveted  adornments  were  gone. 

But  she  hugged  them  to  her  bosom,  and  at  length  she  was 
able  to  look  up  with  dim  eyes  and  a  smile  and  say:  "  My  hair 
grows  so  fast,  Jim!  " 

And  then  Delia  leaped  up  like  a  little  singed  cat  and  cried, 
11  Oh,  oh!  " 

Jim  had  not  yet  seen  his  beautiful  present.  She  held  it  out 
to  him  eagerly  upon  her  open  palm.  The  dull  precious  metal 
seemed  to  flash  with  reflection  of  her  bright  and  ardent  spirit. 

"  Isn't  it  a  dandy,  Jim?  I  hunted  all  over  town  to  find  it. 
You'll  have  to  look  at  the  time  a  hundred  times  a  day  now. 
Give  me  your  watch.  I  want  to  see  how  it  looks  on  it." 

Instead  of  obeying,  Jim  tumbled  down  on  the  couch  and  put 
his  hands  under  the  back  of  his  head  and  smiled. 

"  Dell,"  said  he,  "  let's  put  our  Christmas  presents  away 
and  keep  'em  a  while.  They're  too  nice  to  use  just  at  present. 
I  sold  the  watch  to  get  the  money  to  buy  your  combs.  And  now 
suppose  you  put  the  chops  on." 

The  magi,  as  you  know,  were  wise  men — wonderfully  wise 
men — who  brought  gifts  to  the  Babe  in  the  manger.  They 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  MAGI  85 

invented  the  art  of  giving  Christmas  presents.  Being  wise, 
their  gifts  were  no  doubt  wise  ones,  possibly  bearing  the  pri 
vilege  of  exchange  in  case  of  duplication.  And  here  I  have 
lamely  related  to  you  the  uneventful  chronicle  of  two  foolish 
children  in  a  flat  who  most  unwisely  sacrificed  for  each  other 
the  greatest  treasures  of  their  house.  But  in  a  last  word  to  the 
wise  of  these  days  let  it  be  said  that  of  all  who  give  gifts 
these  two  were  the  wisest.  Of  all  who  give  and  receive  gifts, 
such  as  they  are  wisest.  Everywhere  they  are  wisest.  They  are 
the  magi. 


O.  HENRY 

He  came  to  New  York  in  1902  almost  unknown.  At  his 
death  eight  years  later  he  was  the  best  known  writer  of 
short  stories  in  America.  His  life  was  as  full  of  ups  and 
downs,  and  of  strange  turns  of  fortune,  as  one  of  his  own 
stories.  William  Sidney  Porter,  who  always  signed  his  stories 
as  O.  Henry,  was  born  in  Greenboro,  North  Carolina,  Septem 
ber  n,  1862.  His  mother  died  when  he  was  but  three  years 
old ;  and  an  aunt,  Miss  Evelina  Porter,  cared  for  him  and  gave 
him  nearly  all  his  education.  Books,  too,  were  his  teachers. 
He  says  that  between  his  thirteenth  and  nineteenth  years  he 
did  more  reading  than  in  all  the  years  since.  His  favorite 
books  were  The  Arabian  Nights,  in  Lane's  translation,  and 
Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  an  old  English  book  in  which 
bits  of  science,  superstition  and  reflections  upon  life  were 
strangely  mingled.  Other  books  that  he  enjoyed  were  the 
works  of  Scott,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  Victor  Hugo  and  Alex- 
andre  Dumas.  He  early  showed  ability  as  a  cartoonist,  and 
was  noted  among  his  friends  as  a  good  story  teller.  After  school 
days  he  became  a  clerk  in  his  uncle's  drug  store,  and  here 
acquired  that  knowledge  which  he  used  to  such  good  effect  in 
stories  like  "  Makes  the  Whole  World  Kin  "  and  "  The  Love 
Philtre  of  Ikey  Schoenstein." 

His  health  was  not  robust,  and  confinement  in  a  drug  store 
did  not  improve  it.  A  friend  who  was  going  to  Texas  invited 
him  to  go  along,  and  from  1882  to  1884  he  lived  on  a  ranch, 
acting  as  cowboy,  and  at  odd  moments  studying  French,  Ger 
man  and  Spanish.  Then  he  went  to  Austin,  where  at  various 
times  he  was  clerk,  editor,  bookkeeper,  draftsman,  bank  teller, 
actor  and  cartoonist.  In  1887  he  married  Miss  Athol  Roach. 
He  began  contributing  short  stories  and  humorous  sketches 

86 


O.  HENRY  87 

to  newspapers,  and  finally  purchased  a  paper  of  his  own,  which 
he  called  Rolling  Stones,  a  humorous  weekly.  After  a  year  the 
paper  failed,  and  the  editor  went  to  Houston  to  become  a 
reporter  on  the  Daily  Post.  A  year  later,  it  was  discovered 
that  there  were  serious  irregularities  in  the  bank  in  which  he  had 
worked  in  Austin.  Several  arrests  were  made,  and  O.  Henry 
was  called  to  stand  trial  with  others.  He  had  not  been  guilty 
of  wrong  doing,  but  the  affairs  of  the  bank  had  been  so  loosely 
managed  that  he  was  afraid  that  he  would  be  convicted,  so 
he  fled  to  Central  America.  After  a  year  there,  he  heard  that 
his  wife's  health  was  failing,  and  returned  to  Austin  to  give 
himself  up.  He  was  found  guilty,  and  sentenced  to  five  years 
in  the  Ohio  penitentiary.  His  wife  died  before  the  trial.  His 
time  in  prison  was  shortened  by  good  behavior  to  a  little  more 
than  three  years,  ending  in  1901.  He  wrote  a  number  of  stories 
during  this  time,  sending  them  to  friends  who  in  turn  mailed 
them  to  publishers.  The  editor  of  Ainslie's  Magazine  had 
printed  several  of  them  and  in  1902  he  wrote  to  O.  Henry  urg 
ing  him  to  come  to  New  York,  and  offering  him  a  hundred 
dollars  apiece  for  a  dozen  stories.  He  came,  and  from  that 
time  made  New  York  his  home,  becoming  very  fond  of  Little 
Old-Bagdad-on-the-Subway  as  he  called  it. 

He  had  found  the  work  which  he  wished  to  do,  and  he 
turned  out  stories  very  rapidly.  These  were  first  published 
in  newspapers  and  magazines,  then  collected  in  book  form.  The 
first  of  these  volumes,  Cabbages  and  Kings,  had  Central  Am 
erica  as  its  setting.  He  said  that  while  there  he  had  knocked 
around  chiefly  with  refugees  and  consuls.  The  Four  Million 
was  a  group  of  stories  of  New  York;  it  contained  some  of  his 
best  tales,  such  as  "  The  Gift  of  the  Magi,"  and  "  An  Unfin 
ished  Story."  The  Trimmed  Lamp  and  The  Voice  of  the  City 
also  dealt  with  New  York.  The  Gentle  Grafter  was  a  collec 
tion  of  stories  about  confidence  men  and  "  crooks."  The  mate 
rial  for  these  narratives  he  had  gathered  from  his  companions 
in  his  prison  days.  Heart  of  the  West  reflects  his  days  on  a 


88  AMERICANS  ALL 

Texas  ranch.  Other  books,  more  or  less  miscellaneous  in  their 
locality,  are  Roads  of  Destiny,  Options,  Strictly  Bttsinessf 
Whirligigs;  and  Sixes  and  Sevens.  He  died  in  New  York, 
June  5,  1910.  After  his  death  a  volume  containing  some  of 
his  earliest  work  was  published  under  the  title  Rolling  Stones. 

His  choice  of  subjects  is  thus  indicated  in  the  preface  to 
The  Four  Million: 

"  Not  very  long  ago  some  one  invented  the  assertion  that 
there  were  only  '  Four  Hundred '  people  in  New  York  who 
were  really  worth  noticing.  But  a  wiser  man  has  arisen — the 
census  taker — and  his  larger  estimate  of  human  interest  has 
been  preferred  in  marking  out  the  field  of  these  little  stories 
of  the  <  Four  Million.'  " 

It  was  the  common  man, — the  clerk,  the  bartender,  the  police 
man,  the  waiter,  the  tramp,  that  O.  Henry  chose  for  his  charac 
ters.  He  loved  to  talk  to  chance  acquaintances  on  park  benches 
or  in  cheap  lodging  houses,  to  see  life  from  their  point  of  view. 
His  stories  are  often  of  the  picaresque  type;  a  name  given  to 
a  kind  of  story  in  which  the  hero  is  an  adventurer,  sometimes 
a  rogue.  He  sees  the  common  humanity,  and  the  redeeming 
traits  even  in  these.  His  plots  usually  have  a  turn  of  surprise 
at  the  end;  sometimes  the  very  last  sentence  suddenly  illumi 
nates  the  whole  story.  His  style  is  quick,  nervous,  often 
slangy;  he  is  wonderfully  dextrous  in  hitting  just  the  right 
word  or  phrase.  His  descriptions  are  notable  for  telling  much 
in  a  few  words.  He  has  almost  established  a  definite  type 
of  short  story  writing,  and  in  many  of  the  stories  now  written 
one  may  clearly  see  the  influence  of  O.  Henry. 


IN  POLITICS 


Politics  is  democracy  in  action.  If  we  believe  in  democracy, 
we  must  recognize  in  politics  the  instrument,  however  imper 
fect,  through  which  democracy  works.  Brand  Whitlock  knew 
politics,  first  as  a  political  reporter,  then  as  candidate  for 
mayor  in  four  campaigns,  in  each  of  which  he  was  successful. 
Under  his  administration  the  city  of  Toledo  became  a  better 
place  to  live  in.  In  THE  GOLD  BRICK  he  describes  a  municipal 
campaign,  as  seen  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  newspaper 
office. 


THE  GOLD  BRICK 

BY 

BRAND  WHITLOCK 

TEN  thousand  dollars  a  year!  Neil  Kittrell  left  the  office 
of  the  Morning  Telegraph  in  a  daze.  He  was  insensible  of 
the  raw  February  air,  heedless  of  sloppy  pavements,  the  gray 
day  had  suddenly  turned  gold.  He  could  not  realize  it  all  at 
once;  ten  thousand  a  year — for  him  and  Edith!  His  heart 
swelled  with  love  of  Edith,  she  had  sacrificed  so  much  to 
become  the  wife  of  a  man  who  had  tried  to  make  an  artist 
of  himself,  and  of  whom  fate,  or  economic  determinism,  or 
something,  had  made  a  cartoonist.  What  a  surprise  for  her! 
He  must  hurry  home. 

In  this  swelling  of  his  heart  he  felt  a  love  not  only  of 
Edith  but  of  the  whole  world.  The  people  he  met  seemed 
dear  to  him;  he  felt  friendly  with  every  one,  and  beamed  on 
perfect  strangers  with  broad,  cheerful  smiles.  He  stopped  to 
buy  some  flowers  for  Edith — daffodils,  or  tulips,  which  promised 
spring,  and  he  took  the  daffodils,  because  the  girl  said: 

"  I  think  yellow  is  such  a  spirituelle  color,  don't  you?  " 
and  inclined  her  head  in  a  most  artistic  manner. 

But  daffodils,  after  all,  which  would  have  been  much  the 
day  before,  seemed  insufficient  in  the  light  of  new  prosperity, 
and  Kittrell  bought  a  large  azalea,  beautiful  in  its  graceful 
spread  of  pink  blooms. 

"  Where  shall  I  send  it?  "  asked  the  girl,  whose  cheeks  were 
as  pink  as  azaleas  themselves. 

"I  think  I'll  call  a  cab  and  take  it  to  her  myself,"  said 
Kittrell. 

And  she  sighed  over  the  romance  of  this  rich  young  gentleman 

91 


92  AMERICANS  ALL 

and  the  girl  of  the  azalea,  who,  no  doubt,  was  as  beautiful  as 
the  young  woman  who  was  playing  Lottie,  the  Poor  Saleslady 
at  the  Lyceum  that  very  week. 

Kittrell  and  the  azalea  bowled  along  Claybourne  Avenue;  he 
leaned  back  on  the  cushions,  and  adopted  the  expression  of 
ennui  appropriate  to  that  thoroughfare.  Would  Edith  now 
prefer  Claybourne  Avenue?  With  ten  thousand  a  year  they 
could,  perhaps — and  yet,  at  first  it  would  be  best  not  to  put 
on  airs,  but  to  go  right  on  as  they  were,  in  the  flat.  Then  the 
thought  came  to  him  that  now,  as  the  cartoonist  on  the  Tele 
graph,  his  name  would  become  as  well  known  in  Claybourne 
Avenue  as  it  had  been  in  the  homes  of  the  poor  and  humble 
during  his  years  on  the  Post.  And  his  thoughts  flew  to  those 
homes  where  tired  men  at  evening  looked  for  his  cartoons  and 
children  laughed  at  his  funny  pictures.  It  gave  him  a  pang; 
he  had  felt  a  subtle  bond  between  himself  and  all  those  thou 
sands  who  read  the  Post.  It  was  hard  to  leave  them.  The  Post 
might  be  yellow,  but  as  the  girl  had  said,  yellow  was  a  spirit 
ual  color,  and  the  Post  brought  something  into  their  lives — 
lives  that  were  scorned  by  the  Telegraph  and  by  these  people  on 
the  avenue.  Could  he  make  new  friends  here  where  the  cartoons 
he  drew  and  the  Post  that  printed  them  had  been  contemned, 
if  not  despised?  His  mind  flew  back  to  the  dingy  office  of 
the  Post]  to  the  boys  there,  the  whole  good-natured,  happy- 
go-lucky  gang;  and  to  Hardy — ah,  Hardy! —  who  had  been  so 
good  to  him,  and  given  him  his  big  chance,  had  taken  such  pains 
and  interest,  helping  him  with  ideas  and  suggestions,  criticism 
and  sympathy.  To  tell  Hardy  that  he  was  going  to  leave  him, 
here  on  the  eve  of  the  campaign — and  Clayton,  the  mayor,  he 
would  have  to  tell  him,  too — oh,  the  devil!  Why  must  he 
think  of  these  things  now? 

After  all,  when  he  had  reached  home,  and  had  run  up-stairs 
with  the  news  and  the  azalea,  Edith  did  not  seem  delighted. 

"  But,  dearie,  business  is  business,"  he  urged,  "  and  we  need 
the  money!  " 


THE  GOLD  BRICK  93 

"  Yes,  I  know;  doubtless  you're  right.  Only  please  don't 
say  '  business  is  business ; '  it  isn't  like  you,  and — " 

"  But  think  what  it  will  mean — ten  thousand  a  year!  " 

"  Oh,  Neil,  I've  lived  on  ten  thousand  a  year  before,  and  I 
never  had  half  the  fun  that  I  had  when  we  were  getting  along 
on  twelve  hundred." 

"  Yes,  but  then  we  were  always  dreaming  of  the  day  when 
I'd  make  a  lot;  we  lived  on  that  hope,  didn't  we?  " 

Edith  laughed.    "  You  used  to  say  we  lived  on  love." 

"  You're  not  serious."  He  turned  to  gaze  moodily  out  of 
the  window.  And  then  she  left  the  azalea,  and  perched  on  the 
flat  arm  of  his  chair. 

"  Dearest,"  she  said,  "  I  am  serious.  I  know  all  this  means 
to  you.  We're  human,  and  we  don't  like  to  '  chip  at  crusts 
like  Hindus,'  even  for  the  sake  of  youth  and  art.  I  never 
had  illusions  about  love  in  a  cottage  and  all  that.  Only,  dear, 
I  have  been  happy,  so  very  happy,  with  you,  because — well, 
because  I  was  living  in  an  atmosphere  of  honest  purpose,  hon 
est  ambition,  and  honest  desire  to  do  some  good  thing  in  the 
world.  I  had  never  known  such  an  atmosphere  before.  At 
home,  you  know,  father  and  Uncle  James  and  the  boys — well, 
it  was  all  money,  money,  money  with  them,  and  they  couldn't 
understand  why  I — " 

"  Could  marry  a  poor  newspaper  artist?  That's  just  the 
point." 

She  put  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

"Now,  dear!  If  they  couldn't  understand,  so  much  the 
worse  for  them.  If  they  thought  it  meant  sacrifice  to  me,  they 
were  mistaken.  I  have  been  happy  in  this  little  flat;  only — " 
she  leaned  back  and  inclined  her  head  with  her  eyes  asquint — 
"  only  the  paper  in  this  room  is  atrocious;  it's  a  typical  land 
lord's  selection — McGaw  picked  it  out.  You  see  what  it 
means  to  be  merely  rich." 

She  was  so  pretty  thus  that  he  kissed  her,  and  then  she 
went  on: 


94  AMERICANS  ALL 

"  And  so,  dear,  if  I  didn't  seem  to  be  as  impressed  and  de 
lighted  as  you  hoped  to  find  me,  it  is  because  I  was  thinking 
of  Mr.  Hardy  and  the  poor,  dear  common  little  Post,  and 
then —  of  Mr.  Clayton.  Did  you  think  of  him?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  You'll  have  to — to  cartoon  him?  " 

"  I  suppose  so." 

The  fact  he  had  not  allowed  himself  to  face  was  close  to 
both  of  them,  and  the  subject  was  dropped  until,  just  as  he 
was  going  down-town — this  time  to  break  the  news  to  Hardy — 
he  went  into  the  room  he  sarcastically  said  he  might  begin  to 
call  his  studio,  now  that  he  was  getting  ten  thousand  a  year, 
to  look  for  a  sketch  he  had  promised  Nolan  for  the  sporting 
page.  And  there  on  his  drawing-board  was  an  unfinished  car 
toon,  a  drawing  of  the  strong  face  of  John  Clayton.  He  had 
begun  it  a  few  days  before  to  use  on  the  occasion  of  Clayton's 
renomination.  It  had  been  a  labor  of  love,  and  Kittrell  sud 
denly  realized  how  good  it  was.  He  had  put  into  it  all  of  his 
belief  in  Clayton,  all  of  his  devotion  to  the  cause  for  which 
Clayton  toiled  and  sacrificed,  and  in  the  simple  lines  he  ex 
perienced  the  artist's  ineffable  felicity;  he  had  shown  how 
good,  how  noble,  how  true  a  man  Clayton  was.  All  at  once 
he  realized  the  sensation  the  cartoon  would  produce,  how  it 
would  delight  and  hearten  Clayton's  followers,  how  it  would 
please  Hardy,  and  how  it  would  touch  Clayton.  It  would  be 
a  tribute  to  the  man  and  the  friendship,  but  now  a  tribute 
broken,  unfinished.  Kittrell  gazed  a  moment  longer,  and  in 
that  moment  Edith  came. 

"The  dear,  beautiful  soul!  "  she  exclaimed  softly.  "Neil, 
it  is  wonderful.  It  is  not  a  cartoon;  it  is  a  portrait.  It  shows 
what  you  might  do  with  a  brush." 

Kittrell  could  not  speak,  and  he  turned  the  drawing-board 
to  the  wall. 

When  he  had  gone,  Edith  sat  and  thought — of  Neil,  of  the 
new  position,  of  Clayton.  He  had  loved  Neil,  and  been  so  proud 


THE  GOLD  BRICK  95 

of  his  work;  he  had  shown  a  frank,  naive  pleasure  in  the  car 
toons  Neil  had  made  of  him.  That  last  time  he  was  there, 
thought  Edith,  he  had  said  that  without  Neil  the  "  good  old 
cause,"  as  he  called  it,  using  Whitman's  phrase,  could  never 
have  triumphed  in  that  town.  And  now,  would  he  come  again? 
Would  he  ever  stand  in  that  room  and,  with  his  big,  hearty 
laugh,  clasp  an  arm  around  Neil's  shoulder,  or  speak  of  her 
in  his  good  friendly  way  as  "the  little  woman?  "  Would  he 
come  now,  in  the  terrible  days  of  the  approaching  campaign, 
for  rest  and  sympathy — come  as  he  used  to  come  in  other 
campaigns,  worn  and  weary  from  all  the  brutal  opposition,, 
the  vilification  and  abuse  and  mud-slinging?  She  closed  her 
eyes.  She  could  not  think  that  far. 

KittreH  found  the  task  of  telling  Hardy  just  as  difficult  as 
he  expected  it  to  be,  but  by  some  mercy  it  did  not  last  long. 
Explanation  had  not  been  necessary;  he  had  only  to  make  the 
first  hesitating  approaches,  and  Hardy  understood.  Hardy 
was,  in  a  way,  hurt;  Kittrell  saw  that,  and  rushed  to  his  own 
defense: 

"I  hate  to  go,  old  man.  I  don't  like  it  a  little  bit — but, 
you  know,  business  is  business,  and  we  need  the  money." 

He  even  tried  to  laugh  as  he  advanced  this  last  conclusive 
reason,  and  Hardy,  for  all  he  showed  in  voice  or  phrase,  may 
have  agreed  with  him. 

"  It's  all  right,  Kit,"  he  said.  "  I'm  sorry;  I  wish  we  could 
pay  you  more,  but — well,  good  luck." 

That  was  all.  Kittrell  gathered  up  the  few  articles  he  had 
at  the  office,  gave  Nolan  his  sketch,  bade  the  boys  good-by — 
bade  them  good-by  as  if  he  were  going  on  a  long  journey, 
never  to  see  them  more — and  then  he  went. 

After  he  had  made  the  break  it  did  not  seem  so  bad  as 
he  had  anticipated.  At  first  things  went  on  smoothly  enough. 
The  campaign  had  not  opened,  and  he  was  free  to  exercise  his 
talents  outside  the  political  field.  He  drew  cartoons  dealing 
with  banal  subjects,  touching  with  the  gentle  satire  of  his 


96  AMERICANS  ALL 

humorous  pencil  foibles  which  all  the  world  agreed  about,  and 
let  vital  questions  alone.  And  he  and  Edith  enjoyed  themselves: 
indulged  oftener  in  things  they  loved;  went  more  frequently 
to  the  theater ;  appeared  at  recitals ;  dined  now  and  then  down 
town.  They  began  to  realize  certain  luxuries  they  had  not 
known  for  a  long  time — some  he  himself  had  never  known, 
some  that  Edith  had  not  known  since  she  left  her  father's 
home  to  become  his  bride.  In  more  subtle  ways,  too,  Kittrell 
felt  the  change:  there  was  a  sense  of  larger  leisure;  the  future 
beamed  with  a  broader  and  brighter  light;  he  formed  plans, 
among  which  the  old  dream  of  going  ere  long  to  Paris  for 
serious  study  took  its  dignified  place.  And  then  there  was  the 
sensation  his  change  had  created  in  the  newspaper  world; 
that  the  cartoons  signed  "  Kit,"  which  formerly  appeared  in 
the  Post,  should  now  adorn  the  broad  page  of  the  Telegraph 
was  a  thing  to  talk  about  at  the  press  club;  the  fact  of  his 
large  salary  got  abroad  in  that  little  world  as  well,  and,  after 
the  way  of  that  world,  managed  to  exaggerate  itself,  as  most 
facts  did.  He  began  to  be  sensible  of  attentions  from  men  of 
prominence — small  things,  mere  nods  in  the  street,  perhaps,  or 
smiles  in  the  theater  foyer,  but  enough  to  show  that  they 
recognized  him.  What  those  children  of  the  people,  those 
working-men  and  women  who  used  to  be  his  unknown  and 
admiring  friends  in  the  old  days  on  the  Post,  thought  of  him — 
whether  they  missed  him,  whether  they  deplored  his  change  as 
an  apostasy  or  applauded  it  as  a  promotion — he  did  not  know. 
He  did  not  like  to  think  about  it. 

But  March  came,  and  the  politicians  began  to  bluster  like 
the  season.  Late  one  afternoon  he  was  on  his  way  to  the 
office  with  a  cartoon,  the  first  in  which  he  had  seriously  to 
attack  Clayton.  Benson,  the  managing  editor  of  the  Tele 
graph,  had  conceived  it,  and  Kittrell  had  worked  on  it  that  day 
in  sickness  of  heart.  Every  line  of  this  new  presentation  of 
Clayton  had  cut  him  like  some  biting  acid ;  but  he  had  worked 
on,  trying  to  reassure  himself  with  the  argument  that  he  was 


THE  GOLD  BRICK  97 

a  mere  agent,  devoid  of  personal  responsibility.  But  it  had 
been  hard,  and  when  Edith,  after  her  custom,  had  asked  to 
see  it,  he  had  said: 

"  Oh,  you  don't  want  to  see  it ;  it's  no  good." 

"  Is  it  of— him?  "  she  had  asked. 

And  when  he  nodded  she  had  gone  away  without  another 
word.  Now,  as  he  hurried  through  the  crowded  streets,  he  was 
conscious  that  it  was  no  good  indeed;  and  he  was  divided  be 
tween  the  artist's  regret  and  the  friend's  joy  in  the  fact.  But 
it  made  him  tremble.  Was  his  hand  to  forget  its  cunning? 
And  then,  suddenly,  he  heard  a  familiar  voice,  and  there  be 
side  him,  with  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  stood  the  mayor. 

"  Why,  Neil,  my  boy,  how  are  you?  "  he  said,  and  he  took 
KittrelPs  hand  as  warmly  as  ever.  For  a  moment  Kittrell  was 
relieved,  and  then  his  heart  sank;  for  he  had  a  quick  realization 
that  it  was  the  coward  within  him  that  felt  the  relief,  and  the 
man  the  sickness.  If  Clayton  had  reproached  him,  or  cut  him, 
it  would  have  made  it  easier;  but  Clayton  did  none  of  these 
things,  and  Kittrell  was  irresistibly  drawn  to  the  subject  him 
self. 

"You  heard  of  my — new  job?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Clayton,  "  I  heard." 

"  Well—"  Kittrell  began. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  Clayton  said. 

"  So  was  I,"  Kittrell  hastened  to  say.  "  But  I  felt  it— well, 
a  duty,  some  way — to  Edith.  You  know — we — need  the 
money."  And  he  gave  the  cynical  laugh  that  went  with  the 
argument. 

"  What  does  she  think?    Does  she  feel  that  way  about  it?  " 

Kittrell  laughed,  not  cynically  now,  but  uneasily  and  with 
embarrassment,  for  Clayton's  blue  eyes  were  on  him,  those 
eyes  that  could  look  into  men  and  understand  them  so. 

"  Of  course  you  know,"  Kittrell  went  on  nervously,  "  there 
is  nothing  personal  in  this.  We  newspaper  fellows  simply  do 
what  we  are  told;  we  obey  orders  like  soldiers,  you  know. 


98  AMERICANS  ALL 

With  the  policy  of  the  paper  we  have  nothing  to  do.  Just 
like  Dick  Jennings,  who  was  a  red-hot  free-trader  and  used  to 
write  free-trade  editorials  for  the  Times — he  went  over  to  the 
Telegraph,  you  remember,  and  writes  all  those  protection  argu 
ments." 

The  mayor  did  not  seem  to  be  interested  in  Dick  Jennings, 
or  in  the  ethics  of  his  profession. 

"  Of  course,  you  know  I'm  for  you,  Mr.  Clayton,  just  ex 
actly  as  Fve  always  been.  I'm  going  to  vote  for  you." 

This  did  not  seem  to  interest  the  mayor,  either. 

"  And,  maybe,  you  know — I  thought,  perhaps,"  he  snatched 
at  this  bright  new  idea  that  had  come  to  him  just  in  the  nick 
of  time;  "  that  I  might  help  you  by  my  cartoons  in  the  Tele 
graph;  that  is,  I  might  keep  them  from  being  as  bad  as  they 
might — " 

"  But  that  wouldn't  be  dealing  fairly  with  your  new  em 
ployers,  Neil,"  the  mayor  said. 

Kittrell  was  making  more  and  more  a  mess  of  this  whole 
miserable  business,  and  he  was  basely  glad  when  they  reached 
the  corner. 

"  Well,  good-by,  my  boy,"  said  the  mayor,  as  they  parted. 
"  Remember  me  to  the  little  woman." 

Kittrell  watched  him  as  he  went  on  down  the  avenue,  swing 
ing  along  in  his  free  way,  the  broad  felt  hat  he  wore  riding 
above  all  the  other  hats  in  the  throng  that  filled  the  sidewalk; 
and  Kittrell  sighed  in  deep  depression. 

When  he  turned  in  his  cartoon,  Benson  scanned  it  a  moment, 
cocked  his  head  this  side  and  that,  puffed  his  briar  pipe,  and 
finally  said: 

"  I'm  afraid  this  is  hardly  up  to  you.  This  figure  of  Clay 
ton,  here — it  hasn't  got  the  stuff  in  it.  You  want  to  show 
him  as  he  is.  We  want  the  people  to  know  what  a  four- 
flushing,  hypocritical,  demagogical  blatherskite  he  is — with  all 
his  rot  about  the  people  and  their  damned  rights!  " 

Benson  was  all  unconscious  of  the  inconsistency  of  having 


THE  GOLD  BRICK  99 

concern  for  a  people  he  so  despised,  and  Kittrell  did  not  ob 
serve  it,  either.  He  was  on  the  point  of  defending  Clayton, 
but  he  restrained  himself  and  listened  to  Benson's  suggestions. 
He  remained  at  the  office  for  two  hours,  trying  to  change  the 
cartoon  to  Benson's  satisfaction,  with  a  growing  hatred  of  the 
work  and  a  disgust  with  himself  that  now  and  then  almost 
drove  him  to  mad  destruction.  He  felt  like  splashing  the  piece 
with  India  ink,  or  ripping  it  with  his  knife.  But  he  worked  on, 
and  submitted  it  again.  He  had  failed,  of  course;  failed  to 
express  in  it  that  hatred  of  a  class  which  Benson  unconsciously 
disguised  as  a  hatred  of  Clayton,  a  hatred  which  Kittrell  could 
not  express  because  he  did  not  feel  it;  and  he  failed  because 
art  deserts  her  devotees  when  they  are  false  to  truth. 

"Well,  it'll  have  to  do,"  said  Benson,  as  he  looked  it 
over;  "  but  let's  have  a  little  more  to  the  next  one.  Damn  it! 
I  wish  I  could  draw.  I'd  cartoon  the  crook!  " 

In  default  of  which  ability,  Benson  set  himself  to  write  one 
of  those  savage  editorials  in  which  he  poured  out  on  Clayton 
that  venom  of  which  he  seemed  to  have  such  an  inexhaustible 
supply. 

But  on  one  point  Benson  was  right:  Kittrell  was  not  up  to 
himself.  As  the  campaign  opened,  as  the  city  was  swept  with 
the  excitement  of  it,  with  meetings  at  noon-day  and  at  night, 
office-seekers  flying  about  in  automobiles,  walls  covered  with 
pictures  of  candidates,  hand-bills  scattered  in  the  streets  to 
swirl  in  the  wild  March  winds,  and  men  quarreling  over 
whether  Clayton  or  Ellsworth  should  be  mayor,  Kittrell  had  to 
draw  a  political  cartoon  each  day;  and  as  he  struggled  with 
his  work,  less  and  less  the  old  joy  came  to  cheer  and  spur  him 
on.  To  read  the  ridicule,  the  abuse,  which  the  Telegraph 
heaped  on  Clayton,  the  distortion  of  facts  concerning  his  can 
didature,  the  unfair  reports  of  his  meetings,  sickened  him,  and 
more  than  all,  he  was  filled  with  disgust  as  he  tried  to  match 
in  caricature  these  libels  of  the  man  he  so  loved  and  honored. 
It  was  bad  enough  to  have  to  flatter  Clayton's  opponent,  to 


ioo  AMERICANS  ALL 

picture  him  as  a  noble,  disinterested  character,  ready  to  sacrifice 
himself  for  the  public  weal.  Into  his  pictures  of  this  man, 
attired  in  the  long  black  coat  of  conventional  respectability, 
with  the  smug  face  of  pharisaism,  he  could  get  nothing  but  cant 
and  hypocrisy;  but  in  his  caricatures  of  Clayton  there  was  that 
which  pained  him  worse — disloyalty,  untruth,  and  now  and 
then,  to  the  discerning  few  who  knew  the  tragedy  of  Kittrell's 
soul,  there  was  pity.  And  thus  his  work  declined  in  value; 
lacking  all  sincerity,  all  faith  in  itself  or  its  purpose,  it  became 
false,  uncertain,  full  of  jarring  notes,  and,  in  short,  never  once 
rang  true.  As  for  Edith,  she  never  discussed  his  work  now;  she 
spoke  of  the  campaign  little,  and  yet  he  knew  she  was  deeply 
concerned,  and  she  grew  hot  with  resentment  at  the  methods 
of  the  Telegraph.  Her  only  consolation  was  derived  from  the 
Post,  which  of  course,  supported  Clayton;  and  the  final  drop  of 
bitterness  in  KittrelPs  cup  came  one  evening  when  he  realized 
that  she  was  following  with  sympathetic  interest  the  cartoons 
in  that  paper. 

For  the  Post  had  a  new  cartoonist,  Banks,  a  boy  whom 
Hardy  had  picked  up  somewhere  and  was  training  to  the  work 
Kittrell  had  laid  down.  To  Kittrell  there  was  a  cruel  fas 
cination  in  the  progress  Banks  was  making;  he  watched  it 
with  a  critical,  professional  eye,  at  first  with  amusement,  then 
with  surprise,  and  now  at  last,  in  the  discovery  of  Edith's  in 
terest,  with  a  keen  jealousy  of  which  he  was  ashamed.  The  boy 
was  crude  and  untrained;  his  work  was  not  to  be  compared 
with  Kittrell's,  master  of  line  that  he  was,  but  Kittrell  saw 
that  it  had  the  thing  his  work  now  lacked,  the  vital,  primal 
thing — sincerity,  belief,  love.  The  spark  was  there,  and  Kit 
trell  knew  how  Hardy  would  nurse  that  spark  and  fan  it, 
and  keep  it  alive  and  burning  until  it  should  eventually  blaze 
up  in  a  fine  white  flame.  And  Kittrell  realized,  as  the  days 
went  by,  that  Banks7  work  was  telling,  and  that  his  own  was 
failing.  He  had,  from  the  first  missed  the  atmosphere  of  the 
Post,  missed  the  camaraderie  of  the  congenial  spirits  there, 


THE  GOLD  BRICK  101 

animated  by  a  common  purpose,  inspired  and  led  by  Hardy, 
whom  they  all  loved — loved  as  he  himself  once  loved  him,  loved 
as  he  loved  him  still — and  dared  not  look  him  in  the  face  when 
they  met! 

He  found  the  atmosphere  of  the  Telegraph  alien  and  distaste 
ful.  There  all  was  different;  the  men  had  little  joy  in  their 
work,  little  interest  in  it,  save  perhaps  the  newsoaper  mar?s 
inborn  love  of  a  good  story  or  a  beat.  They  were  all  cynical x 
without  loyalty  or  faith;  they  secretly  ma<^Jfuitof  ths  Wels- 
graph,  of  its  editors  and  owners;  they  had  no  belief  in  its 
cause;  and  its  pretensions  to  respectability,  its  parade  of  virtue, 
excited  only  their  derision.  And  slowly  it  began  to  dawn 
on  Kittrell  that  the  great  moral  law  worked  always  and  every 
where,  even  on  newspapers,  and  that  there  was  reflected  in 
evitably  and  logically  in  the  work  of  the  men  on  that  staff 
the  hatred,  the  lack  of  principle,  the  bigotry  and  intolerance 
of  its  proprietors;  and  this  same  lack  of  principle  tainted  and 
made  meretricious  his  own  work,  and  enervated  the  editorials 
so  that  the  Telegraph,  no  matter  how  carefully  edited  or  how 
dignified  in  typographical  appearance,  was,  nevertheless,  without 
real  influence  in  the  community. 

Meanwhile  Clayton  was  gaining  ground.  It  was  less  than  two 
weeks  before  election.  The  campaign  waxed  more  and  more 
bitter,  and  as  the  forces  opposed  to  him  foresaw  defeat,  they 
became  ugly  in  spirit,  and  desperate.  The  Telegraph  took  on 
a  tone  more  menacing  and  brutal,  and  Kittrell  knew  that  the 
crisis  had  come.  The  might  of  the  powers  massed  against 
Clayton  appalled  Kittrell;  they  thundered  at  him  through 
many  brazen  mouths,  but  Clayton  held  on  his  high  way  un 
perturbed.  He  was  speaking  by  day  and  night  to  thousands. 
Such  meetings  he  had  never  had  before.  Kittrell  had  visions 
of  him  before  those  immense  audiences  in  halls,  in  tents,  in 
the  raw  open  air  of  that  rude  March  weather,  making  his  ap 
peals  to  the  heart  of  the  great  mass.  A  fine,  splendid,  ro 
mantic  figure  he  was,  striking  to  the  imagination,  this  cham- 


102  AMERICANS  ALL 

pion  of  the  people's  cause,  and  Kittrell  longed  for  the  lost 
chance.  Oh,  for  one  day  on  the  Post  now! 

One  morning  at  breakfast,  as  Edith  read  the  Telegraph,  Kit 
trell  saw  the  tears  well  slowly  in  her  brown  eyes. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  it  is  shameful!  "  She  clenched  her  little 
fists.  "  Oh,  if  I  were  only  a  man  I'd  —  "  She  could  not  in  her 
impotent  fermxiine  rage  say  what  she  would  do;  she  could  only 
grind  her  teeth.  •  Kittrell  bent  his  head  over  his  plate;  his 


"  Dearest,"  she  said  presently,  in  another  tone,  "  tell  me, 
how  is  he?  Do  you  —  ever  see  him?  Will  he  win?  " 

"  No,  I  never  see  him.    But  he'll  win  ;  I  wouldn't  worry." 

"  He  used  to  come  here,"  she  went  on,  "  to  rest  a  moment, 
to  escape  from  all  this  hateful  confusion  and  strife.  He  is 
killing  himself!  And  they  aren't  worth  it  —  those  ignorant 
people  —  they  aren't  worth  such  sacrifices." 

He  got  up  from  the  table  and  turned  away,  and  then 
realizing  quickly,  she  flew  to  his  side  and  put  her  arms  about 
his  neck  and  said: 

"  Forgive  me,  dearest,  I  didn't  mean  —  only  —  " 

"  Oh,  Edith,"  he  said,  "  this  is  killing  me.    I  feel  like  a  dog." 

"Don't  dear;  he  is  big  enough,  and  good  enough;  he  will 
understand." 

"  Yes  ;  that  only  makes  it  harder,  only  makes  it  hurt  the 
more." 

That  afternoon,  in  the  car,  he  heard  no  talk  but  of  the 
election;  and  down-  town,  in  a  cigar  store  where  he  stopped  for 
cigarettes,  he  heard  some  men  talking  mysteriously,  in  the 
hollow  voice  of  rumor,  of  some  sensation,  some  scandal.  It 
alarmed  him,  and  as  he  went  into  the  office  he  met  Manning, 
the  Telegraph's  political  man. 

"  Tell  me,  Manning,"  Kittrell  said,  "  how  does  it  look?  " 

"  Damn  bad  for  us." 

"  For  us?  " 

"  Well,  for  our  mob  of  burglars  and  second  story  workers 


THE  GOLD  BRICK  103 

here — the  gang  we  represent."  He  took  a  cigarette  from  the 
box  Kittrell  was  opening. 

"  And  will  he  win?  " 

"  Will  he  win?  "  said  Manning,  exhaling  the  words  on  the 
thin  level  stream  of  smoke  that  came  from  his  lungs.  "  Will 
he  win?  In  a  walk,  I  tell  you.  He's  got  'em  beat  to  a  stand 
still  right  now.  That's  the  dope." 

"  But  what  about  this  story  of — " 

"  Aw,  that's  all  a  pipe-dream  of  Burns'.  I'm  running 
it  in  the  morning,  but  it's  nothing;  it's  a  shine.  They're 
big  fools  to  print  it  at  all.  But  it's  their  last  card;  they're 
desperate.  They  won't  stop  at  anything,  or  at  any  crime,  ex 
cept  those  requiring  courage.  Burns  is  in  there  with  Benson 
now;  so  is  Salton,  and  old  man  Glenn,  and  the  rest  of  the 
bunco  family.  They're  framing  it  up.  When  I  saw  old  Glenn 
go  in,  with  his  white  side-whiskers,  I  knew  the  widow  and  the 
orphan  were  in  danger  again,  and  that  he  was  going  bravely 
to  the  front  for  'em.  Say,  that  young  Banks  is  comin',  isn't 
he?  That's  a  peach,  that  cartoon  of  his  to-night." 

Kittrell  went  on  down  the  hall  to  the  art-room  to  wait 
until  Benson  should  be  free.  But  it  was  not  long  until  he 
was  sent  for,  and  as  he  entered  the  managing  editor's  room 
he  was  instantly  sensible  of  the  somber  atmosphere  of  a  grave 
and  solemn  council  of  war.  Benson  introduced  him  to  Glenn, 
the  banker,  to  Salton,  the  party  boss,  and  to  Burns,  the  presi 
dent  of  the  street-car  company;  and  as  Kittrell  sat  down 
he  looked  about  him,  and  could  scarcely  repress  a  smile  as  he 
recalled  Manning's  estimate  of  Glenn.  The  old  man  sat  there, 
as  solemn  and  unctuous  as  ever  he  had  in  his  pew  at  church. 
Benson,  red  of  face,  was  more  plainly  perturbed,  but  Salton 
was  as  reserved,  as  immobile,  as  inscrutable  as  ever,  his 
narrow,  pointed  face,  with  its  vulpine  expression,  being  perhaps 
paler  than  usual.  Benson  had  on  his  desk  before  him  the  car 
toon  Kittrell  had  finished  that  day. 

"  Mr.  Kittrell,"  Benson  began,  "  we've  been  talking  over  the 


104  AMERICANS  ALL 

political  situation,  and  I  was  showing  these  gentlemen  this 
cartoon.  It  isn't,  I  fear,  in  your  best  style;  it  lacks  the  force, 
the  argument,  we'd  like  just  at  this  time.  That  isn't  the  Tele 
graph  Clayton,  Mr.  Kittrell."  He  pointed  with  the  amber  stem 
of  his  pipe.  "  Not  at  all.  Clayton  is  a  strong,  smart,  un 
scrupulous,  dangerous  man !  We've  reached  a  crisis  in  this  cam 
paign;  if  we  can't  turn  things  in  the  next  three  days,  we're 
lost,  that's  all;  we  might  as  well  face  it.  To-morrow  we  make 
an  important  revelation  concerning  the  character  of  Clayton, 
and  we  want  to  follow  it  up  the  morning  after  by  a  cartoon 
that  will  be  a  stunner,  a  clencher.  We  have  discussed  it  here 
among  ourselves,  and  this  is  our  idea." 

Benson  drew  a  crude,  bald  outline,  indicating  the  cartoon 
they  wished  Kittrell  to  draw.  The  idea  was  so  coarse,  so 
brutal,  so  revolting,  that  Kittrell  stood  aghast,  and,  as  he 
stood,  he  was  aware  of  Salton's  little  eyes  fixed  on  him.  Benson 
waited;  they  all  waited. 

"  Well,"  said  Benson,  "  what  do  you  think  of  it?  " 

Kittrell  paused  an  instant,  and  then  said: 

"  I  won't  draw  it;  that's  what  I  think  of  it." 

Benson  flushed  angrily  and  looked  up  at  him. 

"  We  are  paying  you  a  very  large  salary,  Mr.  Kittrell,  and 
your  work,  if  you  will  pardon  me,  has  not  been  up  to  what 
we  were  led  to  expect." 

"  You  are  quite  right,  Mr.  Benson,  but  I  can't  draw  that 
cartoon." 

"  Well,  great  God!  "  yelled  Burns,  "  what  have  we  got  here — 
a  gold  brick?  "  He  rose  with  a  vivid  sneer  on  his  red  face, 
plunged  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  took  two  or  three  ner 
vous  strides  across  the  room.  Kittrell  looked  at  him,  and 
slowly  his  eyes  blazed  out  of  a  face  that  had  gone  white  on  the 
instant. 

"  What  did  you  say,  sir?  "  he  demanded. 

Burns  thrust  his  red  face,  with  its  prognathic  jaw,  menacingly 
toward  Kittrell. 


THE  GOLD  BRICK  105 

"  I  said  that  in  you  we'd  got  a  gold  brick." 

"  You?  "  said  Kittrell.  "  What  have  you  to  do  with  it? 
I  don't  work  for  you." 

"  You  don't?    Well,  I  guess  it's  us  that  puts  up—" 

"  Gentlemen!  Gentlemen!  "  said  Glenn,  waving  a  white, 
pacificatory  hand. 

"  Yes,  let  me  deal  with  this,  if  you  please,"  said  Benson, 
looking  hard  at  Burns.  The  street-car  man  sneered  again,  then, 
in  ostentatious  contempt,  looked  out  the  window.  And  in  the 
stillness  Benson  continued: 

"  Mr.  Kittrell,  think  a  minute.    Is  your  decision  final?  " 

"  It  is  final,  Mr.  Benson,"  said  Kittrell.  "  And  as  for  you, 
Burns,"  he  glared  angrily  at  the  man,  "  I  wouldn't  draw  that 
cartoon  for  all  the  dirty  money  that  all  the  bribing  street-car 
companies  in  the  world  could  put  into  Mr.  Glenn's  bank  here. 
Good  evening,  gentlemen." 

It  was  not  until  he  stood  again  in  his  own  home  that  Kit 
trell  felt  the  physical  effects  which  the  spiritual  squalor 
of  such  a  scene  was  certain  to  produce  in  a  nature  like 
his. 

"Neil!  What  is  the  matter?  "  Edith  fluttered  toward  him 
in  alarm. 

He  sank  into  a  chair,  and  for  a  moment  he  looked  as  if 
he  would  faint,  but  he  looked  wanly  up  at  her  and  said: 

"Nothing;  I'm  all  right;  just  a  little  weak.  I've  gone 
through  a  sickening,  horrible  scene — " 

"Dearest!  " 

"And  I'm  off  the  Telegraph — and  a  man  once  more!  " 

He  bent  over,  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  head  in  his 
hands,  and  when  Edith  put  her  calm,  caressing  hand  on  his 
brow,  she  found  that  it  was  moist  from  nervousness.  Presently 
he  was  able  to  tell  her  the  whole  story. 

"  It  was,  after  all,  Edith,  a  fitting  conclusion  to  my  ex 
perience  on  the  Telegraph.  I  suppose,  though,  that  to  people 
who  are  used  to  ten  thousand  a  year  such  scenes  are  nothing 


io6  AMERICANS  ALL 

at  all."  She  saw  in  this  trace  of  his  old  humor  that  he  was 
himself  again,  and  she  hugged  his  head  to  her  bosom. 

"  Oh,  dearest,"  she  said,  "  I'm  proud  of  you — and  happy 
again." 

They  were,  indeed,  both  happy,  happier  than  they  had  been 
in  weeks. 

The  next  morning  after  breakfast,  she  saw  by  his  manner, 
by  the  humorous,  almost  comical  expression  about  his  eyes, 
that  he  had  an  idea.  In  this  mood  of  satisfaction — this  mood 
that  comes  too  seldom  in  the  artist's  life — she  knew  it  was  wise 
to  let  him  alone.  And  he  lighted  his  pipe  and  went  to  work. 
She  heard  him  now  and  then,  singing  or  whistling  or  hum 
ming;  she  scented  his  pipe,  then  cigarettes;  then,  at  last,  after 
two  hours,  he  called  in  a  loud,  triumphant  tone: 

"  Oh,  Edith!  " 

She  was  at  the  door  in  an  instant,  and,  waving  his  hand 
grandly  at  his  drawing-board,  he  turned  to  her  with  that  ex 
pression  which  connotes  the  greatest  joy  gods  or  mortals  can 
know — the  joy  of  beholding  one's  own  work  and  finding  it  good. 
He  had,  as  she  saw,  returned  to  the  cartoon  of  Clayton  he 
had  laid  aside  when  the  tempter  came ;  and  now  it  was  finished. 
Its  simple  lines  revealed  Clayton's  character,  as  the  sufficient 
answer  to  all  the  charges  the  Telegraph  might  make  against 
him.  Edith  leaned  against  the  door  and  looked  long  and 
critically. 

"It  was  fine  before,"  she  said  presently;  "it's  better  now. 
Before  it  was  a  portrait  of  the  man;  this  shows  his  soul." 

"  Well,  it's  how  he  looks  to  me,"  said  Neil,  "  after  a  month 
in  which  to  appreciate  him." 

"  But  what,"  she  said,  stooping  and  peering  at  the  edge  of 
the  drawing,  where,  despite  much  knife-scraping,  vague  figures 
appeared,  "  what's  that?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  ashamed  to  tell  you,"  he  said.  "  I'll  have  to  paste 
over  that  before  it's  electrotyped.  You  see,  I  had  a  notion  of 
putting  in  the  gang,  and  I  drew  four  little  figures — Benson, 


THE  GOLD  BRICK  107 

Burns,  Salton  and  Glenn;  they  were  plotting — oh,  it  was 
foolish  and  unworthy.  I  decided  I  didn't  want  anything  of 
hatred  in  it — just  as  he  wouldn't  want  anything  of  hatred  in  it ; 
so  I  rubbed  them  out." 

"Well,  I'm  glad.  It  is  beautiful;  it  makes  up  for  every 
thing;  it's  an  appreciation — worthy  of  the  man." 

When  Kittrell  entered  the  office  of  the  Post,  the  boys  greeted 
him  with  delight,  and  his  presence  made  a  sensation,  for  there 
had  been  rumors  of  the  break  which  the  absence  of  a  "  Kit  " 
cartoon  in  the  Telegraph  that  morning  had  confirmed.  But, 
if  Hardy  was  surprised,  his  surprise  was  swallowed  up  in  his 
joy,  and  Kittrell  was  grateful  to  him  for  the  delicacy  with 
which  he  touched  the  subject  that  consumed  the  newspaper 
and  political  world  with  curiosity. 

"  I'm  glad,  Kit,"  was  all  that  he  said.    "  You  know  that." 

Then  he  forgot  everything  in  the  cartoon,  and  he  showed  his 
instant  recognition  of  its  significance  by  snatching  out  his 
watch,  pushing  a  button,  and  saying  to  Garland,  who  came 
to  the  door  in  his  shirtsleeves : 

"  Tell  Nic  to  hold  the  first  edition  for  a  five-column  first- 
page  cartoon.  And  send  this  up  right  away." 

They  had  a  last  look  at  it  before  it  went,  and  after  gazing 
a  moment  in  silence  Hardy  said: 

"  It's  the  greatest  thing  you  ever  did,  Kit,  and  it  comes  at 
the  psychological  moment.  It'll  elect  him." 

"  Oh,  he  was  elected  anyhow." 

Hardy  shook  his  head,  and  in  the  movement  Kittrell  saw 
how  the  strain  of  the  campaign  had  told  on  him.  "  No,  he 
wasn't;  the  way  they've  been  hammering  him  is  something 
fierce;  and  the  Telegraph — well,  your  cartoons  and  all,  you 
know." 

"  But  my  cartoons  in  the  Telegraph  were  rotten.  Any  work 
that's  not  sincere,  not  intellectually  honest " 

Hardy  interrupted  him: 

"Yes;  but,  Kit,  you're  so  good  that  your  rotten  is  better 


io8  AMERICANS  ALL 

than  'most  anybody's  best."  He  smiled,  and  Kittrell  blushed 
and  looked  away. 

Hardy  was  right.  The  "  Kit "  cartoon,  back  in  the  Post, 
created  its  sensation,  and  after  it  appeared  the  political  re 
porters  said  it  had  started  a  landslide  to  Clayton;  that  the  bet 
ting  was  4  to  i  and  no  takers,  and  that  it  was  all  over  but  the 
shouting. 

That  night,  as  they  were  at  dinner,  the  telephone  rang,  and 
in  a  minute  Neil  knew  by  Edith's  excited  and  delighted  reitera 
tion  of  "  yes,"  "  yes,"  who  had  called  up.  And  he  then  heard 
her  say: 

"  Indeed  I  will;  I'll  come  every  night  and  sit  in  the  front 
seat." 

When  Kittrell  displaced  Edith  at  the  telephone,  he  heard 
the  voice  of  John  Clayton,  lower  in  register  and  somewhat  husky 
after  four  weeks'  speaking,  but  more  musical  than  ever  in  Kit 
trell  's  ears  when  it  said: 

"  I  just  told  the  little  woman,  Neil,  that  I  didn't  know  how 
to  say  it,  so  I  wanted  her  to  thank  you  for  me.  It  was  beauti 
ful  in  you,  and  I  wish  I  were  worthy  of  it;  it  was  simply 
your  own  good  soul  expressing  itself." 

And  it  was  the  last  delight  to  Kittrell  to  hear  that  voice 
and  to  know  that  all  was  well. 

But  one  question  remained  unsettled.  Kittrell  had  been  on 
the  Telegraph  a  month,  and  his  contract  differed  from  that 
ordinarily  made  by  the  members  of  a  newspaper  staff  in 
that  he  was  paid  by  the  year,  though  in  monthly  instalments. 
Kittrell  knew  that  he  had  broken  his  contract  on  grounds 
which  the  sordid  law  would  not  see  or  recognize  and  the  aver 
age  court  think  absurd,  and  that  the  Telegraph  might  legally 
refuse  to  pay  him  at  all.  He  hoped  the  Telegraph  would  do 
this !  But  it  did  not ;  on  the  contrary,  he  received  the  next  day 
a  check  for  his  month's  work.  He  held  it  up  for  Edith's 
inspection. 

"  Of  course,  I'll  have  to  send  it  back,"  he  said. 


THE  GOLD  BRICK  109 

"  Certainly." 

"  Do  you  think  me  quixotic?  " 

"  Well,  we're  poor  enough  as  it  is — let's  have  some  luxuries; 
let's  be  quixotic  until  after  election,  at  least." 

"Sure,"  said  Neil;  "just  what  I  was  thinking.  I'm  going 
to  do  a  cartoon  every  day  for  the  Post  until  election  day,  and 
I'm  not  going  to  take  a  cent.  I  don't  want  to  crowd  Banks  out, 
you  know,  and  I  want  to  do  my  part  for  Clayton  and  the 
cause,  and  do  it,  just  once,  for  the  pure  love  of  the  thing." 

Those  last  days  of  the  campaign  were,  indeed,  luxuries  to 
Kittrell  and  to  Edith,  days  of  work  and  fun  and  excitement. 
All  day  Kittrell  worked  on  his  cartoons,  and  in  the  evening 
they  went  to  Clayton's  meetings.  The  experience  was  a  revela 
tion  to  them  both — the  crowds,  the  waiting  for  the  singing  of 
the  automobile's  siren,  the  wild  cheers  that  greeted  Clayton, 
and  then  his  speech,  his  appeals  to  the  best  there  was  in  men, 
He  had  never  made  such  speeches,  and  long  afterward  Edith 
could  hear  those  cheers  and  see  the  faces  of  those  working- 
men  aglow  with  the  hope,  the  passion,  the  fervent  religion  of 
democracy.  And  those  days  came  to  their  glad  climax  that 
night  when  they  met  at  the  office  of  the  Post  to  receive  the 
returns,  in  an  atmosphere  quivering  with  excitement,  with 
messenger  boys  and  reporters  coming  and  going,  and  in  the 
street  outside  an  immense  crowd,  swaying  and  rocking  between 
the  walls  on  either  side,  with  screams  and  shouts  and  mad 
huzzas,  and  the  wild  blowing  of  horns — all  the  hideous,  happy 
noise  an  American  election-night  crowd  can  make. 

Late  in  the  evening  Clayton  had  made  his  way,  somehow 
unnoticed,  through  the  crowd,  and  entered  the  office.  He 
was  happy  in  the  great  triumph  he  would  not  accept  as  personal, 
claiming  it  always  for  the  cause;  but  as  he  dropped  into  the 
chair  Hardy  pushed  toward  him,  they  all  saw  how  weary  he 
was. 

Just  at  that  moment  the  roar  in  the  street  below  swelled  to 
a  mighty  crescendo,  and  Hardy  cried: 


no  AMERICANS  ALL 

"  Look!  " 

They  ran  to  the  window.  The  boys  up-stairs  who  were 
manipulating  the  stereopticon,  had  thrown  on  the  screen  an 
enormous  picture  of  Clayton,  the  portrait  Kittrell  had  drawn  for 
his  cartoon. 

"  Will  you  say  now  there  isn't  the  personal  note  in  it?  " 
Edith  asked. 

Clayton  glanced  out  the  window,  across  the  dark,  surging 
street,  at  the  picture. 

"Oh,  it's  not  me  they're  cheering  for,"  he  said;  "it's  for 
Kit,  here." 

"Well,  perhaps  some  of  it's  for  him,"  Edith  admitted 
loyally. 

They  were  silent,  seized  irresistibly  by  the  emotion  that 
mastered  the  mighty  crowd  in  the  dark  streets  below.  Edith 
was  strangely  moved.  Presently  she  could  speak: 

"  Is  there  anything  sweeter  in  life  than  to  know  that  you 
have  done  a  good  thing — and  done  it  well?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Clayton,  "  just  one:  to  have  a  few  friends  who 
understand." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Edith.  "  It  is  so  with  art,  and  it  must 
be  so  with  life;  it  makes  an  art  of  life." 

It  was  dark  enough  there  by  the  window  for  her  to  slip  her 
hand  into  that  of  Neil,  who  had  been  musing  silently  on  the 
crowd. 

"  I  can  never  say  again,"  she  said  softly,  "  that  those  people 
are  not  worth  sacrifice.  They  are  worth  all;  they  are  every 
thing;  they  are  the  hope  of  the  world;  and  their  longings  and 
their  needs,  and  the  possibility  of  bringing  them  to  pass,  are 
all  that  give  significance  to  life." 

"  That's  what  America  is  for,"  said  Clayton,  "  and  it's  worth 
while  to  be  allowed  to  help  even  in  a  little  way  to  make,  as 
old  Walt  says, '  a  nation  of  friends,  of  equals.'  " 


BRAND  WHITLOCK 

Brand  Whitlock,  lawyer,  politician,  author  and  ambassa 
dor,  was  born  in  Urbana,  Ohio,  March  4,  1869.  His  father, 
Rev.  Elias  D.  Whitlock,  was  a  minister  of  power  and  a  man 
of  strong  convictions.  Brand  was  educated  partly  in  the  public 
schools,  partly  by  private  teaching.  He  never  went  to  college, 
but  this  did  not  mean  that  his  education  stopped;  he  kept  on 
studying,  and  to  such  good  purpose  that  in  1916  Brown  Uni 
versity  gave  him  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws.  Like  many  other 
writers,  he  received  his  early  training  in  newspaper  work.  At 
eighteen  he  became  a  reporter  on  a  Toledo  paper,  and  three 
years  later  was  reporter  and  political  correspondent  for  the 
Chicago  Herald.  While  in  Chicago  he  was  a  member  of  the 
old  Whitechapel  Club,  a  group  of  newspaper  men  which  in 
cluded  F.  P.  Dunne,  the  creator  of  Mr.  Dooley;  Alfred  Henry 
Lewis,  author  of  Wolfville;  and  George  Ade,  whose  Fables  in 
Slang  were  widely  popular  a  few  years  ago. 

He  was  strongly  drawn  to  the  law,  and  in  1893  went  to 
Springfield,  Illinois,  and  entered  a  law  office  as  a  student. 
He  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  shortly  after  went  to 
Toledo,  Ohio,  to  practice.  In  eight  years  he  had  estab 
lished  himself  as  a  successful  lawyer,  and  something  more. 
He  was  recognized  as  a  man  of  high  executive  ability,  and 
as  being  absolutely  "  square."  Such  men  are  none  too 
common,  and  Toledo  decided  that  it  needed  him  in  the 
mayor's  chair.  Without  a  political  machine,  without  a  plat 
form,  and  without  a  party,  he  was  elected  mayor  in  1905, 
reelected  in  1907,  again  in  1909,  again  in  1911 — and  could 
probably  have  had  the  office  for  life  if  he  had  been  willing  to 
accept  it.  In  the  meantime  he  had  written  several  successful 
novels;  he  wanted  more  time  for  writing,  and  when  in  1913  he 


H2  AMERICANS  ALL 

was  offered  the  post  of  United  States  Minister  to  Belgium,  he 
accepted,  thinking  that  he  would  find  in  this  position  an  op 
portunity  to  observe  life  from  a  new  angle,  and  leisure  for 
literary  work.  In  August  1914  he  was  on  his  vacation,  and 
had  begun  work  on  a  new  novel.  In  his  own  words: 

I  had  the  manuscript  of  my  novel  before  me.  ...  It  was  some 
how  just  beginning  to  take  form,  beginning  to  show  some  signs  of 
life ;  at  times  some  characters  in  it  gave  evidence  of  being  human 
and  alive;  they  were  beginning  to  act  now  and  then  spontaneously, 
beginning  to  say  and  to  do  things  after  the  manner  of  human 
beings ;  the  long  vista  before  me,  the  months  of  laborious  drudging 
toil  and  pain,  the  long  agony  of  effort  necessary  to  write  any  book, 
even  a  poor  one,  was  beginning  to  appear  less  weary,  less  futile; 
there  was  the  first  faint  glow  of  the  joy  of  creative  effort. 

and  then  suddenly  the  telephone  bell  rang,  and  announced  that 
the  Archduke  of  Austria  had  been  assassinated  at  Sarajevo. 

The  rest  of  the  story  belongs  to  history.  How  he  went  back 
to  Brussels;  how  when  the  city  seemed  doomed,  and  all  the 
government  officials  left,  he  stayed  on;  how  when  the  city  was 
preparing  to  resist  by  force,  he  went  to  Burgomaster  Max  and 
convinced  him  that  it  was  useless,  and  so  saved  the  city  from 
the  fate  of  Louvain;  how  he  took  charge  of  the  relief  work, 
how  the  King  of  Belgium  thanked  him  for  his  services  to  the 
country;  how  the  city  of  Brussels  in  gratitude  gave  him  a  pic 
ture  by  Van  Dyck,  a  priceless  thing,  which  he  accepted — not 
for  himself  but  for  his  home  city  of  Toledo;  how  after  the 
war,  he  went  back,  not  as  Minister  but  as  Ambassador, — 
all  these  are  among  the  proud  memories  of  America's  part  in 
the  World  War. 

Brand  Whitlock  is  so  much  more  than  an  author  that  it 
is  with  an  effort  that  we  turn  to  consider  his  literary  work. 
His  first  book,  The  Thirteenth  District,  published  in  1902,  was 
a  novel  of  American  politics;  it  contains  a  capital  description 
of  a  convention,  and  shows  the  strategy  of  political  leaders  as 
seen  by  a  keen  observer.  In  Her  Infinite  Variety  he  dealt  with 


BRAND  WHITLOCK  113 

the  suffrage  movement  as  it  was  in  1904,  with  determined 
women  seeking  the  ballot,  and  equally  determined  women 
working  just  as  hard  to  keep  it  away  from  them.  The  Happy 
Average  was  a  story  of  an  every-day  American  couple:  they 
were  not  rich,  nor  famous,  nor  divorced, — yet  the  author 
thinks  their  story  is  typical  of  most  American  lives.  The 
Turn  of  the  Balance  is  a  novel  that  grew  out  of  his  legal  ex 
periences:  it  deals  with  the  underworld  of  crime,  and  often  in 
a  depressing  way.  It  reflects  the  author's  belief  that  the  pres 
ent  organization  of  society,  and  our  methods  of  administer 
ing  justice,  are  the  cause  of  much  of  the  misery  in  the  world. 
Following  these  novels  came  two  volumes  of  short  stories, 
The  Gold  Brick  and  The  Fall  Guy:  both  deal  with  various 
aspects  of  American  life  of  to-day.  In  1914  he  published 
an  autobiography  under  the  title  Forty  Years  of  It.  This  is 
interesting  as  a  picture  of  political  life  of  the  period  in  Ohio. 
His  latest  book,  Memories  of  Belgium  under  the  German 
Occupation,  tells  the  story  of  four  eventful  years.  In  all  that 
trying  time,  each  night,  no  matter  how  weary  he  was,  he  forced 
himself  to  set  down  the  events  of  the  day.  From  these  records 
he  wrote  a  book  that  by  virtue  of  its  first-hand  information 
and  its  literary  art  ranks  among  the  most  important  of  the 
books  called  forth  by  the  Great  War. 


THE  TRAVELING  SALESMAN 


The  traveling  salesman  is  a  characteristic  American  type. 
We  laugh  at  his  stories,  or  we  criticise  him  for  his  "  nerve," 
but  we  do  not  always  make  allowance  for  the  fact  that  his  life 
is  not  an  easy  one,  and  that  his  occupation  develops  "  nerve  " 
just  as  an  athlete's  work  develops  muscle.  The  best  presenta 
tion  of  the  traveling  salesman  in  fiction  is  found  in  the  stories 
of  Edna  Ferber.  And  the  fact  that  her  "salesman"  is  a 
woman  only  adds  to  the  interest  of  the  stories.  When  ex- 
President  Roosevelt  read  Miss  Ferber's  book,  he  wrote  her  an 
enthusiastic  letter  telling  her  how  much  he  admired  Emma 
McChesney.  We  meet  her  in  the  first  words  of  this  story. 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

BY 

EDNA  FERBER 

"  FULL?  "  repeated  Emma  McChesney  (and  if  it  weren't  for 
the  compositor  there 'd  be  an  exclamation  point  after  that  ques 
tion  mark). 

"  Sorry,  Mrs.  McChesney,"  said  the  clerk,  and  he  actually 
looked  it,  "  but  there's  absolutely  nothing  stirring.  We're  full 
up.  The  Benevolent  Brotherhood  of  Bisons  is  holding  its 
regular  annual  state  convention  here.  We're  putting  up  cots 
in  the  hall." 

Emma  McChesney's  keen  blue  eyes  glanced  up  from  their 
inspection  of  the  little  bunch  of  mail  which  had  just  been 
handed  her.  "  Well,  pick  out  a  hall  with  a  southern  exposure 
and  set  up  a  cot  or  so  for  me,"  she  said,  agreeably,  "  because 
I've  come  to  stay.  After  selling  Featherloom  Petticoats  on  the 
road  for  ten  years  I  don't  see  myself  trailing  up  and  down  this 
town  looking  for  a  place  to  lay  my  head.  I've  learned  this 
one  large,  immovable  truth,  and  that  is,  that  a  hotel  clerk  is  a 
hotel  clerk.  It  makes  no  difference  whether  he  is  stuck  back 
of  a  marble  pillar  and  hidden  by  a  gold  vase  full  of  thirty-six- 
inch  American  Beauty  roses  at  the  Knickerbocker,  or  setting 
the  late  fall  fashions  for  men  in  Galesburg,  Illinois." 

By  one  small  degree  was  the  perfect  poise  of  the  peerless 
personage  behind  the  register  jarred.  But  by  only  one.  He 
was  a  hotel  night  clerk. 

"  It  won't  do  you  any  good  to  get  sore,  Mrs.  McChesney," 
he  began,  suavely.  "  Now  a  man  would " 

"  But  I'm  not  a  man,"  interrupted  Emma  McChesney.  "I'm 

117 


xx8  AMERICANS  ALL 

only  doing  a  man's  work  and  earning  a  man's  salary  and  de 
manding  to  be  treated  with  as  much  consideration  as  you'd 
show  a  man." 

The  personage  busied  himself  mightily  with  a  pen,  and  a 
blotter,  and  sundry  papers,  as  is  the  manner  of  personages 
when  annoyed.  "  I'd  like  to  accommodate  you;  I'd  like  to  do 
it." 

"  Cheer  up,"  said  Emma  McChesney,  "  you're  going  to.  I 
don't  mind  a  little  discomfort.  Though  I  want  to  mention  in 
passing  that  if  there  are  any  lady  Bisons  present  you  needn't 
bank  on  doubling  me  up  with  them.  I've  had  one  experience 
of  that  kind.  It  was  in  Albia,  Iowa.  I'd  sleep  in  the  kitchen 
range  before  I'd  go  through  another." 

Up  went  the  erstwhile  falling  poise.  "  You're  badly  mis 
taken,  madam.  I'm  a  member  of  this  order  myself,  and  a 
finer  lot  of  fellows  it  has  never  been  my  pleasure  to 
know." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  drawled  Emma  McChesney.  "Do  you 
know,  the  thing  that  gets  me  is  the  inconsistency  of  it.  Along 
come  a  lot  of  boobs  who  never  use  a  hotel  the  year  around 
except  to  loaf  in  the  lobby,  and  wear  out  the  leather  chairs,  and 
use  up  the  matches  and  toothpicks  and  get  the  baseball  re 
turns,  and  immediately  you  turn  away  a  traveling  man  who 
uses  a  three-dollar-a-day  room,  with  a  sample  room  down-r 
stairs  for  his  stuff,  who  tips  every  porter  and  bell-boy  in  the 
place,  asks  for  no  favors,  and  who,  if  you  give  him  a  half 
way  decent  cup  of  coffee  for  breakfast,  will  fall  in  love  with 
the  place  and  boom  it  all  over  the  country.  Half  of  your 
Benevolent  Bisons  are  here  on  the  European  plan,  with  a 
view  to  patronizing  the  free-lunch  counters  or  being  asked  to 
take  dinner  at  the  home  of  some  local  Bison  whose  wife  has 
been  cooking  up  on  pies,  and  chicken  salad  and  veal  roast  for 
the  last  week." 

Emma  McChesney  leaned  over  the  desk  a  little,  and  lowered 
her  voice  to  the  tone  of  confidence.  "  Now,  I'm  not  in  the 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON  119 

habit  of  making  a  nuisance  of  myself  like  this.  I  don't  get 
so  chatty  as  a  rule,  and  I  know  that  I  could  jump  over  to 
Monmouth  and  get  first-class  accommodations  there.  But  just 
this  once  I've  a  good  reason  for  wanting  to  make  you  and 
myself  a  little  miserable.  Y'see,  my  son  is  traveling  with 
me  this  trip." 

"  Son!  "  echoed  the  clerk,  staring. 

"  Thanks.  That's  what  they  all  do.  After  a  while  I'll  begin 
to  believe  that  there  must  be  something  hauntingly  beautiful 
and  girlish  about  me  or  every  one  wouldn't  petrify  when  I  an 
nounce  that  I've  a  six-foot  son  attached  to  my  apron-strings. 
He  looks  twenty-one,  but  he's  seventeen.  He  thinks  the 
world's  rotten  because  he  can't  grow  one  of  those  fuzzy  little 
mustaches  that  the  men  are  cultivating  to  match  their  hats. 
He's  down  at  the  depot  now,  straightening  out  our  baggage. 
Now  I  want  to  say  this  before  he  gets  here.  He's  been  out 
with  me  just  four  days.  Those  four  days  have  been  a  revela 
tion,  an  eye-opener,  and  a  series  of  rude  jolts.  He  used  to 
think  that  his  mother's  job  consisted  of  traveling  in  Pullmans, 
eating  delicate  viands  turned  out  by  the  hotel  chefs,  and  strew 
ing  Featherloom  Petticoats  along  the  path.  I  gave  him  plenty 
of  money,  and  he  got  into  the  habit  of  looking  lightly  upon 
anything  more  trifling  than  a  five-dollar  bill.  He's  changing 
his  mind  by  great  leaps.  I'm  prepared  to  spend  the  night  in 
the  coal  cellar  if  you'll  just  fix  him  up — not  too  comfortably. 
It'll  be  a  great  lesson  for  him.  There  he  is  now.  Just  coming 
in.  Fuzzy  coat  and  hat  and  English  stick.  Hist!  As  they 
say  on  the  stage." 

The  boy  crossed  the  crowded  lobby.  There  was  a  little 
worried,  annoyed  frown  between  his  eyes.  He  laid  a  protecting 
hand  on  his  mother's  arm.  Emma  McChesney  was  conscious 
of  a  little  thrill  of  pride  as  she  realized  that  he  did  not  have 
to  look  up  to  meet  her  gaze. 

"  Look  here,  Mother,  they  tell  me  there's  some  sort  of  a 
convention  here,  and  the  town's  packed.  That's  what  all  those 


120  AMERICANS  ALL 

banners  and  things  were  for.  I  hope  they've  got  something 
decent  for  us  here.  I  came  up  with  a  man  who  said  he  didn't 
think  there  was  a  hole  left  to  sleep  in." 

"  You  don't  say!  "  exclaimed  Emma  McChesney,  and  turned 
to  the  clerk.  "  This  is  my  son,  Jock  McChesney — Mr.  Sims. 
Is  this  true?  " 

"  Glad  to  know  you,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Sims.  "  Why,  yes,  I'm 
afraid  we  are  pretty  well  filled  up,  but  seeing  it's  you  maybe 
we  can  do  something  for  you." 

He  ruminated,  tapping  his  teeth  with  a  penholder,  and  eying 
the  pair  before  him  with  a  maddening  blankness  of  gaze. 
Finally: 

"  I'll  do  my  best,  but  you  can't  expect  much.  I  guess  I 
can  squeeze  another  cot  into  eight-seven  for  the  young  man. 
There's — let's  see  now — who's  in  eighty-seven?  Well,  there's 
two  Bisons  in  the  double  bed,  and  one  in  the  single,  and  Fat 
Ed  Meyers  in  the  cot  and " 

Emma  McChesney  stiffened  into  acute  attention. 
"  Meyers?  "  she  interrupted.  "  Do  you  mean  Ed  Meyers  of 
the  Strauss  Sans-silk  Skirt  Company?  " 

"That's  so.  You  two  are  in  the  same  line,  aren't  you? 
He's  a  great  little  piano  player,  Ed  is.  Ever  hear  him 
play?  " 

"  When  did  he  get  in?  " 

"  Oh,  he  just  came  in  fifteen  minutes  ago  on  the  Ashland 
division.  He's  in  at  supper." 

"  Oh,"  said  Emma  McChesney.  The  two  letters  breathed 
relief. 

But  relief  had  no  place  in  the  voice,  or  on  the  countenance  of 
Jock  McChesney.  He  bristled  with  belligerence.  "  This  cattle- 
car  style  of  sleeping  don't  make  a  hit.  I  haven't  had  a  decent 
night's  rest  for  three  nights.  I  never  could  sleep  on  a  sleeper. 
Can't  you  fix  us  up  better  than  that?  " 

"  Best  I  can  do." 

"  But  where's  mother  going?     I  see  you  advertise  '  three 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON  121 

large  and  commodious  steam-heated  sample  rooms  in  connec 
tion/  I  suppose  mother's  due  to  sleep  on  one  of  the  tables 
'there." 

"  Jock,"  Emma  McChesney  reproved  him,  "  Mr.  Sims  is 
doing  us  a  great  favor.  There  isn't  another  hotel  in  town 
that  would " 

"  You're  right,  there  isn't,"  agreed  Mr.  Sims.  "  I  guess 
the  young  man  is  new  to  this  traveling  game.  As  I  said,  I'd 
like  to  accommodate  you,  but —  Let's  see  now.  Tell  you 
what  I'll  do.  If  I  can  get  the  housekeeper  to  go  over  and  sleep 
in  the  maids'  quarters  just  for  to-night,  you  can  use  her  room. 
There  you  are!  Of  course,  it's  over  the  kitchen,  and  there 
may  be  some  little  noise  early  in  the  morning " 

Emma  McChesney  raised  a  protesting  hand.  "  Don't  men 
tion  it.  Just  lead  me  thither.  I'm  so  tired  I  could  sleep  in  an 
excursion  special  that  was  switching  at  Pittsburgh.  Jock,  me 
child,  we're  in  luck.  That's  twice  in  the  same  place.  The  first 
time  was  when  we  were  inspired  to  eat  our  supper  on  the 
diner  instead  of  waiting  until  we  reached  here  to  take  the  left 
overs  from  the  Bisons'  grazing.  I  hope  that  housekeeper  hasn't 
a  picture  of  her  departed  husband  dangling  life-size  on  the 
wall  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  But  they  always  have.  Good 
night,  son.  Don't  let  the  Bisons  bite  you.  I'll  be  up  at 
seven." 

But  it  was  just  6.30  A.M.  when  Emma  McChesney  turned 
the  little  bend  in  the  stairway  that  led  to  the  office.  The 
scrub- woman  was  still  in  possession.  The  cigar-counter  girl 
had  not  yet  made  her  appearance.  There  was  about  the 
place  a  general  air  of  the  night  before.  All  but  the 
night  clerk.  He  was  as  spruce  and  trim,  and  alert  and 
smooth-shaven  as  only  a  night  clerk  can  be  after  a  night's 
vigil. 

"  'Morning!  "  Emma  McChesney  called  to  him.  She  wore 
blue  serge,  and  a  smart  fall  hat.  The  late  autumn  morning 
was  not  crisper  and  sunnier  than  she. 


122  AMERICANS  ALL 

"  Good-morning,  Mrs.  McChesney,"  returned  Mr.  Sims, 
sonorously.  "  Have  a  good  night's  sleep?  I  hope  the  kitchen 
noises  didn't  wake  you." 

Emma  McChesney  paused  with  her  hand  on  the  door. 
"  Kitchen?  Oh,  no.  I  could  sleep  through  a  vaudeville  china- 
juggling  act.  But — what  an  extraordinarily  unpleasant-looking 
man  that  housekeeper's  husband  must  have  been." 

That  November  morning  boasted  all  those  qualities  which 
November-morning  writers  are  so  prone  to  bestow  upon  the 
month.  But  the  words  wine,  and  sparkle,  and  sting,  and 
glow,  and  snap  do  not  seem  to  cover  it.  Emma  McChesney 
stood  on  the  bottom  step,  looking  up  and  down  Main  Street 
and  breathing  in  great  draughts  of  that  unadjectivable  air. 
Her  complexion  stood  the  test  of  the  merciless,  astringent 
morning  and  came  up  triumphantly  and  healthily  firm  and 
pink  and  smooth.  The  town  was  still  asleep.  She  started  to 
walk  briskly  down  the  bare  and  ugly  Main  Street  of  the  little 
town.  In  her  big,  generous  heart,  and  her  keen,  alert  mind, 
there  were  many  sensations  and  myriad  thoughts,  but  varied 
and  diverse  as  they  were  they  all  led  back  to  the  boy  up  there 
in  the  stuffy,  over-crowded  hotel  room — the  boy  who  was 
learning  his  lesson. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  r centered  the  hotel,  her  cheeks  glow 
ing.  Jock  was  not  yet  down.  So  she  ordered  and  ate  her  wise 
and  cautious  breakfast  of  fruit  and  cereal  and  toast  and  coffee, 
skimming  over  her  morning  paper  as  she  ate.  At  7:30  she 
was  back  in  the  lobby,  newspaper  in  hand.  The  Bisons  were 
already  astir.  She  seated  herself  in  a  deep  chair  in  a  quiet 
corner,  her  eyes  glancing  up  over  the  top  of  her  paper  toward 
the  stairway.  At  eight  o'clock  Jock  McChesney  came  down. 

There  was  nothing  of  jauntiness  about  him.  His  eyelids 
were  red.  His  face  had  the  doughy  look  of  one  whose  sleep 
has  been  brief  and  feverish.  As  he  came  toward  his  mother  you 
noticed  a  stain  on  his  coat,  and  a  sunburst  of  wrinkles  across 
one  leg  of  his  modish  brown  trousers. 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON  123 

"  Good-morning,  son!  "  said  Emma  McChesney.  "  Was 
it  as  bad  as  that?  " 

Jock  McChesney's  long  fingers  curled  into  a  fist. 

"  Say/'  he  began,  his  tone  venomous,  "  do  you  know  what 
those — those — those " 

"  Say  it!  "  commanded  Emma  McChesney.  "  I'm  only  your 
mother.  If  you  keep  that  in  your  system  your  breakfast  will 
curdle  in  your  stomach." 

Jock  McChesney  said  it.  I  know  no  phrase  better  fitted  to 
describe  his  tone  than  that  old  favorite  of  the  erotic  novelists. 
It  was  vibrant  with  passion.  It  breathed  bitterness.  It  siz 
zled  with  savagery.  It — Oh,  alliteration  is  useless. 

"  Well,"  said  Emma  McChesney,  encouragingly,  "  go  on." 

"Well!  "  gulped  Jock  McChesney,  and  glared;  "those  two 
double-bedded,  bloomin',  blasted  Bisons  came  in  at  twelve, 
and  the  single  one  about  fifteen  minutes  later.  They  didn't 
surprise  me.  There  was  a  herd  of  about  ninety-three  of  'em 
in  the  hall,  all  saying  good-night  to  each  other,  and  planning 
where  they'd  meet  in  the  morning,  and  the  time,  and  place 
and  probable  weather  conditions.  For  that  matter,  there 
were  droves  of  'em  pounding  up  and  down  the  halls  all  night. 
I  never  saw  such  restless  cattle.  If  you'll  tell  me  what  makes 
more  noise  in  the  middle  of  the  night  than  the  metal  disk  of 
a  hotel  key  banging  and  clanging  up  against  a  door,  I'd  like 
to  know  what  it  is.  My  three  Bisons  were  all  dolled  up  with 
fool  ribbons  and  badges  and  striped  paper  canes.  When  they 
switched  on  the  light  I  gave  a  crack  imitation  of  a  tired  work 
ing  man  trying  to  get  a  little  sleep.  I  breathed  regularly 
and  heavily,  with  an  occasional  moaning  snore.  But  if  those 
two  hippopotamus  Bisons  had  been  alone  on  their  native  plains 
they  couldn't  have  cared  less.  They  bellowed,  and  pawed  the 
earth,  and  threw  their  shoes  around,  and  yawned,  and  stretched 
and  discussed  their  plans  for  the  next  day,  and  reviewed  all 
their  doings  of  that  day.  Then  one  of  them  said  something 
about  turning  in,  and  I  was  so  happy  I  forgot  to  snore.  Just 


124  AMERICANS  ALL 

then  another  key  clanged  at  the  door,  in  walked  a  fat  man  in  a 
brown  suit  and  a  brown  derby,  and  stuff  was  off." 

"That,"  said  Emma  McChesney,  "  would  be  Ed  Meyers, 
of  the  Strauss  Sans-silk  Skirt  Company." 

"  None  other  than  our  hero."  Jock's  tone  had  an  added 
acidity.  "  It  took  those  four  about  two  minutes  to  get  ac 
quainted.  In  three  minutes  they  had  told  their  real  names,  and 
it  turned  out  that  Meyers  belonged  to  an  organization  that 
was  a  second  cousin  of  the  Bisons.  In  five  minutes  they  had 
got  together  a  deck  and  a  pile  of  chips  and  were  shirt-sleeving  it 
around  a  game  of  pinochle.  I  would  doze  off  to  the  slap  of 
cards,  and  the  click  of  chips,  and  wake  up  when  the  bell-boy 
came  in  with  another  round,  which  he  did  every  six  minutes. 
When  I  got  up  this  morning  I  found  that  Fat  Ed  Meyers  had 
been  sitting  on  the  chair  over  which  I  trustingly  had  draped  my 
trousers.  This  sunburst  of  wrinkles  is  where  he  mostly  sat. 
This  spot  on  my  coat  is  where  a  Bison  drank  his  beer." 

Emma  McChesney  folded  her  paper  and  rose,  smiling.  "  It 
Is  sort  of  trying,  I  suppose,  if  you're  not  used  to  it." 

"Used  to  it!  "  shouted  the  outraged  Jock.  "Used  to  it! 
Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  there's  nothing  unusual  about " 

"  Not  a  thing.  Oh,  of  course  you  don't  strike  a  bunch  of 
Bisons  every  day.  But  it  happens  a  good  many  times.  The 
yrorld  is  full  of  Ancient  Orders  and  they're  everlastingly  get 
ting  together  and  drawing  up  resolutions  and  electing  officers. 
Don't  you  think  you'd  better  go  in  to  breakfast  before  the 
Bisons  begin  to  forage?  I've  had  mine." 

The  gloom  which  had  overspread  Jock  McChesney 's  face 
lifted  a  little.  The  hungry  boy  in  him  was  uppermost.  "  That's 
so.  I'm  going  to  have  some  wheat  cakes,  and  steak,  and  eggs, 
and  coffee,  and  fruit,  and  toast,  and  rolls." 

"  Why  slight  the  fish?  "  inquired  his  mother.  Then,  as  he 
turned  toward  the  dining-room,  "  I've  two  letters  to  get  out. 
Then  I'm  going  down  the  street  to  see  a  customer.  I'll  be 
up  at  the  Sulzberg-Stein  department  store  at  nine  sharp. 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON  125 

There's  no  use  trying  to  see  old  Sulzberg  before  ten,  but  I'll  be 
there,  anyway,  and  so  will  Ed  Meyers,  or  I'm  no  skirt  sales 
man.  I  want  you  to  meet  me  there.  It  will  do  you  good  to 
watch  how  the  overripe  orders  just  drop,  ker-plunk,  into  my 
lap." 

Maybe  you  know  Sulzberg  &  Stein's  big  store?  No?  That's 
because  you've  always  lived  in  the  city.  Old  Sulzberg  sends 
his  buyers  to  the  New  York  market  twice  a  year,  and  they  need 
two  floor  managers  on  the  main  floor  now.  The  money  those 
people  spend  for  red  and  green  decorations  at  Christmas  time, 
apple-blossoms  and  pink  crepe  paper  shades  in  the  spring,  must 
be  something  awful.  Young  Stein  goes  to  Chicago  to  have 
his  clothes  made,  and  old  Sulzberg  likes  to  keep  the  traveling 
men  waiting  in  the  little  ante-room  outside  his  private  office. 

Jock  McChesney  finished  his  huge  breakfast,  strolled  over 
to  Sulzberg  &  Stein's,  and  inquired  his  way  to  the  office  only  to 
find  that  his  mother  was  not  yet  there.  There  were  three  men 
in  the  little  waiting-room.  One  of  them  was  Fat  Ed  Meyers. 
His  huge  bulk  overflowed  the  spindle-legged  chair  on  which  he 
sat.  His  brown  derby  was  in  his  hands.  His  eyes  were  on  the 
closed  door  at  the  other  side  of  the  room.  So  were  the  eyes 
of  the  other  two  travelers.  Jock  took  a  vacant  seat  next  to 
Fat  Ed  Meyers  so  that  he  might,  in  his  mind's  eye,  pick  out  a 
particularly  choice  spot  upon  which  his  hard  young  fist  might 
land — if  only  he  had  the  chance.  Breaking  up  a  man's  sleep 
like  that,  the  great  big  overgrown  mutt! 

"  What's  your  line?  "  said  Ed  Meyers,  suddenly  turning 
toward  Jock. 

Prompted  by  some  imp — "  Skirts,"  answered  Jock.  "  Ladies7 
petticoats."  ("  As  if  men  ever  wore  'em!  "  he  giggled  in 
wardly.) 

Ed  Meyers  shifted  around  in  his  chair  so  that  he  might 
better  stare  at  this  new  foe  in  the  field.  His  little  red  mouth 
was  open  ludicrously. 

"  Who're  you  out  for?  "  he  demanded  next. 


126  AMERICANS  ALL 

There  was  a  look  of  Emma  McChesney  on  Jock's  face. 
"  Why — er — the  Union  Underskirt  and  Hosiery  Company  of 
Chicago.  New  concern." 

"  Must  be/'  ruminated  Ed  Meyers.  "  I  never  heard  of  'em, 
and  I  know  'em  all.  You're  starting  in  young,  ain't  you,  kid! 
Well,  it'll  never  hurt  you.  You'll  learn  something  new  every 
day.  Now  me,  I " 

In  breezed  Emma  McChesney.  Her  quick  glance  rested 
immediately  upon  Meyers  and  the  boy.  And  in  that  moment 
some  instinct  prompted  Jock  McChesney  to  shake  his  head, 
ever  so  slightly,  and  assume  a  blankness  of  expression.  And 
Emma  McChesney,  with  that  shrewdness  which  had  made  her 
one  of  the  best  salesmen  on  the  road,  saw,  and  miraculously 
understood. 

"  How  do,  Mrs.  McChesney,''  grinned  Fat  Ed  Meyers.  "  You 
see  I  beat  you  to  it." 

"  So  I  see,"  smiled  Emma,  cheerfully.  "  I  was  delayed.  Just 
sold  a  nice  little  bill  to  Watkins  down  the  street."  She  seated 
herself  across  the  way,  and  kept  her  eyes  on  that  closed  door. 

"  Say,  kid,"  Meyers  began,  in  the  husky  whisper  of  the  fat 
man,  "  I'm  going  to  put  you  wise  to  something,  seeing  you're 
new  to  this  game.  See  that  lady  over  there?  "  He  nodded 
discreetly  in  Emma  McChesney's  direction. 

"  Pretty,  isn't  she?  "  said  Jock,  appreciatively. 

"  Know  who  she  is?  " 

"Well— I— she  does  look  familiar,  but " 

"  Oh,  come  now,  quit  your  bluffing.  If  you'd  ever  met  that 
dame  you'd  remember  it.  Her  name's  McChesney — Emma 
McChesney,  and  she  sells  T.  A.  Buck's  Featherloom  Petti 
coats.  I'll  give  her  her  dues;  she's  the  best  little  salesman  on 
the  road.  I'll  bet  that  girl  could  sell  a  ruffled,  accordion-plaited 
underskirt  to  a  fat  woman  who  was  trying  to  reduce.  She's 
got  the  darndest  way  with  her.  And  at  that  she's  straight, 
too." 

If  Ed  Meyers  had  not  been  gazing  so  intently  into  his  hat, 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON  127 

trying  at  the  same  time  to  look  cherubically  benign  he  might 
have  seen  a  quick  and  painful  scarlet  sweep  the  face  of  the 
boy,  coupled  with  a  certain  tense  look  of  the  muscles  around 
the  jaw. 

"Well,  now,  look  here,"  he  went  on,  still  in  a  whisper, 
"  We're  both  skirt  men,  you  and  me.  Everything's  fair  in  this 
game.  Maybe  you  don't  know  it,  but  when  there's  a  bunch  of 
the  boys  waiting  around  to  see  the  head  of  the  store  like  this, 
and  there  happens  to  be  a  lady  traveler  in  the  crowd,  why, 
it's  considered  kind  of  a  professional  courtesy  to  let  the  lady 
have  the  first  look-in.  See?  It  ain't  so  often  that  three  people 
in  the  same  line  get  together  like  this.  She  knows  it,  and  she's 
sitting  on  the  edge  of  her  chair,  waiting  to  bolt  when  that  door 
opens,  even  if  she  does  act  like  she  was  hanging  on  the  words 
of  that  lady  clerk  there.  The  minute  it  does  open  a  crack  she'll 
jump  up  and  give  me  a  fleeting,  grateful  smile,  and  sail  in  and 
cop  a  fat  order  away  from  the  old  man  and  his  skirt  buyer. 
I'm  wise.  Say,  he  may  be  an  oyster,  but  he  knows  a  pretty 
woman  when  he  sees  one.  By  the  time  she's  through  with  him 
he'll  have  enough  petticoats  on  hand  to  last  him  from  now  until 
Turkey  goes  suffrage.  Get  me?  " 

"  I  get  you,"  answered  Jock. 

"I  say,  this  is  business,  and  good  manners  be  hanged.  When 
a  woman  breaks  into  a  man's  game  like  this,  let  her  take 
her  chances  like  a  man.  Ain't  that  straight?  " 

"  YouVe  said  something,"  agreed  Jock. 

"  Now,  look  here,  kid.  When  that  door  opens  I  get  up. 
See?  And  shoot  straight  for  the  old  man's  office.  See?  Like 
a  duck.  See?  Say,  I  may  be  fat,  kid,  but  I'm  what  they  call 
light  on  my  feet,  and  when  I  see  an  order  getting  away  from  me 
I  can  be  so  fleet  that  I  have  Diana  looking  like  old  Weston  do 
ing  a  stretch  of  muddy  country  road  in  a  coast-to-coast  hike. 
See?  Now  you  help  me  out  on  this  and  I'll  see  that  you  don't 
suffer  for  it.  I'll  stick  in  a  good  word  for  you,  believe  me.  You 
take  the  word  of  an  old  stager  like  me  and  you  won't  go  far — " 


128  AMERICANS  ALL 

The  door  opened.  Simultaneously  three  figures  sprang  into 
action.  Jock  had  the  seat  nearest  the  door.  With  marvelous 
clumsiness  he  managed  to  place  himself  in  Ed  Meyers'  path, 
then  reddened,  began  an  apology,  stepped  on  both  of  Ed's  feet, 
jabbed  his  elbow  into  his  stomach,  and  dropped  his  hat. 
A  second  later  the  door  of  old  Sulzberg's  private  office 
closed  upon  Emma  McChesney's  smart,  erect,  confident 
figure. 

Now,  Ed  Meyers'  hands  were  peculiar  hands  for  a  fat  man. 
They  were  tapering,  slender,  delicate,  blue-veined,  temperamen 
tal  hands.  At  this  moment,  despite  his  purpling  face,  and  his 
staring  eyes,  they  were  the  most  noticeable  thing  about  him. 
His  fingers  clawed  the  empty  air,  quivering,  vibrant,  as  though 
poised  to  clutch  at  Jock's  throat. 

Then  words  came.  They  spluttered  from  his  lips.  They 
popped  like  corn  kernels  in  the  heat  of  his  wrath;  they  tripped 
over  each  other;  they  exploded. 

"  You  darned  kid,  you!  "  he  began,  with  fascinating  fluency. 
•"You  thousand-legged,  double-jointed,  ox- footed  truck  horse! 
Come  on  out  of  here  and  I'll  lick  the  shine  off  your  shoes, 
you  blue-eyed  babe,  you!  What  did  you  get  up  for,  huh? 
What  did  you  think  this  was  going  to  be — a  flag  drill?  " 

With  a  whoop  of  pure  joy  Jock  McChesney  turned  and  fled. 

They  dined  together  at  one  o'clock,  Emma  McChesney  and 
her  son  Jock.  Suddenly  Jock  stopped  eating.  His  eyes  were 
on  the  door.  "  There's  that  fathead  now,"  he  said,  excitedly. 
"  The  nerve  of  him!  He's  coming  over  here." 

Ed  Meyers  was  waddling  toward  them  with  the  quick 
light  step  of  the  fat  man.  His  pink,  full-jowled  face  was  glow 
ing.  His  eyes  were  bright  as  a  boy's.  He  stopped  at  their 
table  and  paused  for  one  dramatic  moment. 

"  So,  me  beauty,  you  two  were  in  cahoots,  huh?  That's  the 
second  low-down  deal  you've  handed  me.  I  haven't  forgotten 
that  trick  you  turned  with  Nussbaum  at  DeKalb.  Never 
mind,  little  girl.  I'll  get  back  at  you  yet." 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON  129 

He  nodded  a  contemptous  head  in  Jock's  direction.  "  Carry 
ing  a  packer?  " 

Emma  McChesney  wiped  her  fingers  daintily  on  her  napkin, 
crushed  it  on  the  table,  and  leaned  back  in  her  chair.  "Men," 
she  observed,  wonderingly,  "  are  the  cussedest  creatures.  This 
chap  occupied  the  same  room  with  you  last  night  and  you 
don't  even  know  his  name.  Funny!  If  two  strange  women 
had  found  themselves  occupying  the  same  room  for  a  night  they 
wouldn't  have  got  to  the  kimono  and  back  hair  stage  before 
they  would  not  only  have  known  each  other's  names,  but  they'd 
have  tried  on  each  other's  hats,  swapped  corset  cover  patterns, 
found  mutual  friends  living  in  Dayton,  Ohio,  taught  each 
other  a  new  Irish  crochet  stitch,  showed  their  family  photo 
graphs,  told  how  their  married  sister's  little  girl  nearly  died 
with  swollen  glands,  and  divided  off  the  mirror  into  two  sections 
to  paste  their  newly-washed  handkerchiefs  on.  Don't  tell 
me  men  have  a  genius  for  friendship." 

"  Well,  who  is  he?  "  insisted  Ed  Meyers.  "  He  told  me 
everything  but  his  name  this  morning.  I  wish  I  had  throttled 
him  with  a  bunch  of  Bisons'  badges  last  night." 

"  His  name,"  smiled  Emma  McChesney,  "  is  Jock  McChes 
ney.  He's  my  one  and  only  son,  and  he's  put  through  his 
first  little  business  deal  this  morning  just  to  show  his  mother 
that  he  can  be  a  help  to  his  folks  if  he  wants  to.  Now,  Ed 
Meyers,  if  you're  going  to  have  apoplexy,  don't  you  go  and 
have  it  around  this  table.  My  boy  is  only  on  his  second  piece 
of  pie,  and  I  won't  have  his  appetite  spoiled." 


EDNA  FERBER 

A  professor  of  literature  once  began  a  lecture  on  Lowell  by 
saying:  "  It  makes  a  great  deal  of  difference  to  an  author 
whether  he  is  born  in  Cambridge  or  Kalamazoo."  Miss 
Ferber  was  born  in  Kalamazoo,  but  it  hasn't  made  much  differ 
ence  to  her.  The  date  was  August  15,  1887.  She  attended 
high  school  at  Appleton,  Wisconsin,  and  at  seventeen  secured 
a  position  as  reporter  on  the  Appleton  Daily  Crescent.  That 
she  was  successful  in  newspaper  work  is  shown  by  the  fact  that 
she  soon  had  a  similar  position  on  the  Milwaukee  Journal, 
and  went  from  there  to  the  staff  of  the  Chicago  Tribune,  one 
of  the  leading  newspapers  in  the  United  States. 

But  journalism,  engrossing  as  it  is,  did  not  take  all  of  her 
time.  She  began  a  novel,  working  on  it  in  spare  moments,  but 
when  it  was  finished  she  was  so  dissatisfied  with  it  that  she 
threw  the  manuscript  into  the  waste  basket.  Here  her  mother 
found  it,  and  sent  it  to  a  publisher,  who  accepted  it  at  once. 
The  book  was  Dawn  Oy  Hara.  It  was  dedicated  "  To  my  dear 
mother  who  frequently  interrupts,  and  to  my  sister  Fannie  who 
says  Sh-sh-sh  outside  my  door."  With  this  book  Miss  Ferber, 
at  twenty-four,  found  herself  the  author  of  one  of  the  suc 
cessful  novels  of  the  year. 

Her  next  work  was  in  the  field  of  the  short  story,  and  here  too 
she  quickly  gained  recognition.  The  field  that  she  has  made 
particularly  her  own  is  the  delineation  of  the  American  busi 
ness  woman,  a  type  familiar  in  our  daily  life,  but  never  ade 
quately  presented  in  fiction  until  Emma  McChesney  appeared. 
The  fidelity  with  which  these  stories  describe  the  life  of  a  travel 
ing  salesman  show  that  Miss  Ferber  knew  her  subject  through 
and  through  before  she  began  to  write.  Her  knowledge  of 

130 


EDNA  FERBER  131 

other  things  is  shown  in  an  amusing  letter  which  she  wrote  to 
the  editor  of  the  Bookman  in  1912.  He  had  criticized  her  for 
writing  a  story  about  baseball,  saying  that  no  woman  really 
knew  baseball.  This  was  her  reply,  in  part: 

You,  buried  up  there  in  your  office,  or  your  apartment,  with 
your  books,  books,  books,  and  your  pipe,  and  your  everlasting  manu 
scripts,  and  makers  of  manuscripts,  don't  you  know  that  your  woman 
secretary  knows  more  about  baseball  than  you  do  ?  Don't  you  know 
that  every  American  girl  knows  baseball,  and  that  most  of  us  read 
the  sporting  page,  not  as  a  pose,  but  because  we're  interested  in 
things  that  happen  on  the  field,  and  track,  and  links,  and  gridiron? 
Bless  your  heart,  that  baseball  story  was  the  worst  story  in  the 
book,  but  it  was  written  after  a  solid  summer  of  watching  our  bush 
league  team  play  ball  in  the  little  Wisconsin  town  that  I  used  to 
call  home. 

Humanity?  Which  of  us  really  knows  it?  But  take  a  fairly 
intelligent  girl  of  seventeen,  put  her  on  a  country  daily  newspaper, 
and  then  keep  her  on  one  paper  or  another,  country  and  city,  for 
six  years,  and — well,  she  just  naturally  can't  help  learning  some 
things  about  some  folks,  now  can  she?  .  .  . 

You  say  that  two  or  three  more  such  books  may  entitle  me  to 
serious  consideration.  If  I  can  get  the  editors  to  take  more  stories, 
why  I  suppose  there'll  be  more  books.  But  please  don't  perform 
any  more  serious  consideration  stuff  over  'em.  Because  me'n 
Georgie  Cohan,  we  jest  aims  to  amuse. 

Her  first  book  of  short  stories  was  called  Buttered  Side 
Down  (her  titles  are  always  unusual).  This  was  followed  by 
Roast  Beef,  Medium,  in  which  Mrs.  McChesney  appears  as  the 
successful  distributor  of  Featherloom  skirts.  Personality  Plus 
tells  of  the  adventures  of  her  son  Jock  as  an  advertising  man. 
Cheerful — by  Request  introduces  Mrs.  McChesney  and  some 
other  people.  By  this  time  her  favorite  character  had  become 
so  well  known  that  the  stage  called  for  her,  so  Miss  Ferber 
collaborated  with  George  V.  Hobart  in  a  play  called  Our  Mrs. 
McChesney,  which  was  produced  with  Ethel  Barry  more  in  the 
title  role.  Her  latest  book,  Fanny  Herself,  is  a  novel,  and  in 
its  pages  Mrs.  McChesney  appears  again. 


i32  AMERICANS  ALL 

Her  stories  show  the  effect  of  her  newspaper  training.  The 
style  is  crisp;  the  descriptions  show  close  observation.  Humor 
lights  up  every  page,  and  underlying  all  her  stories  is  a  belief 
in  people,  a  faith  that  life  is  worth  while,  a  courage  in  the  face 
of  obstacles,  that  we  like  to  think  is  characteristically  Am 
erican.  In  the  structure  and  the  style  of  her  stories,  Miss 
Ferber  shows  the  influence  of  O.  Henry,  or  as  a  newspaper  wit 
put  it, 

O.  Henry's  fame,  unless  mistaken  I'm 
Goes  ednaferberating  down  through  time. 


AFTER  THE  BIG  STORE  CLOSES 


We  all  go  to  the  Big  Store  to  buy  its  bargains,  and  some 
times  we  wonder  idly  what  the  clerks  are  like  when  they  are  not 
behind  the  counter.  This  story  deals  with  the  lives  of  two 
people  who  punched  the  time-clock.  When  the  store  doses, 
it  is  like  the  striking  of  the  clock  in  the  fairy  tales:  the  clerks 
are  transformed  into  human  beings,  and  become  so  much  like 
ourselves  that  it  is  hard  to  tell  the  difference. 


BITTER-SWEET 

BY 

FANNIE  HURST 

MUCH  of  the  tragical  lore  of  the  infant  mortality,  the  mal 
nutrition,  and  the  five-in-a-room  morality  of  the  city's  poor 
is  written  in  statistics,  and  the  statistical  path  to  the  heart 
is  more  figurative  than  literal. 

It  is  difficult  to  write  stylistically  a  per-annum  report  of 
1,327  curvatures  of  the  spine,  whereas  the  poor  specific  little 
vertebra  of  Mamie  O'Grady,  daughter  to  Lou,  your  laundress, 
whose  alcoholic  husband  once  invaded  your  very  own  basement 
and  attempted  to  strangle  her  in  the  coal-bin,  can  instantly 
create  an  apron  bazaar  in  the  church  vestry-rooms. 

That  is  why  it  is  possible  to  drink  your  morning  coffee  with 
out  nausea  for  it,  over  the  head-lines  of  forty  thousand  casual 
ties  at  Ypres,  but  to  push  back  abruptly  at  a  three-line  notice 
of  little  Tony's,  your  corner  bootblack's,  fatal  dive  before  a 
street-car. 

Gertie  Slayback  was  statistically  down  as  a  woman  wage- 
earner  ;  a  typhoid  case  among  the  thousands  of  the  Borough  of 
Manhattan  for  1901;  and  her  twice-a-day  share  in  the  Sub 
way  fares  collected  in  the  present  year  of  our  Lord. 

She  was  a  very  atomic  one  of  the  city's  four  millions.  But 
after  all,  what  are  the  kings  and  peasants,  poets  and  dray 
men,  but  great,  greater,  or  greatest,  less,  lesser,  or  least  atoms 
of  us?  If  not  of  the  least,  Gertie  Slayback  was  of  the  very 
lesser.  When  she  unlocked  the  front  door  to  her  rooming- 
house  of  evenings,  there  was  no  one  to  expect  her,  except  on 
Tuesdays,  which  evening  it  so  happened  her  week  was  up.  And 

135 


136  AMERICANS  ALL 

when  she  left  of  mornings  with  her  breakfast  crumblessly 
cleared  up  and  the  box  of  biscuit  and  condensed-milk  can 
tucked  unsuspectedly  behind  her  camisole  in  the  top  drawer 
there  was  no  one  to  regret  her. 

There  are  some  of  us  who  call  this  freedom.  Again  there  are 
those  for  whom  one  spark  of  home  fire  burning  would  light 
the  world. 

Gertie  Slayback  was  one  of  these.  Half  a  life-time  of  open 
ing  her  door  upon  this  or  that  desert-aisle  of  hall  bedroom 
had  not  taught  her  heart  how  not  to  sink  or  the  feel  of  daily 
rising  in  one  such  room  to  seem  less  like  a  damp  bathing-suit, 
donned  at  dawn. 

The  only  picture — or  call  it  atavism  if  you  will — which 
adorned  Miss  Slayback's  dun-colored  walls  was  a  passe-partout 
snowscape,  night  closing  in,  and  pink  cottage  windows  peering 
out  from  under  eaves.  She  could  visualize  that  interior  as  if 
she  had  only  to  turn  the  frame  for  the  smell  of  wood  fire  and 
the  snap  of  pine  logs  and  for  the  scene  of  two  high-back  chairs 
and  the  wooden  crib  between. 

What  a  fragile,  gracile  thing  is  the  mind  that  can  leap  thus 
from  nine  bargain  basement  hours  of  hairpins  and  darning- 
balls  to  the  downy  business  of  lining  a  crib  in  Never-Never 
Land  and  warming  No  Man's  slippers  before  the  fire  of  imag 
ination. 

There  was  that  picture  so  acidly  etched  into  Miss  Slayback's 
brain  that  she  had  only  to  close  her  eyes  in  the  slit-like  sanc 
tity  of  her  room  and  in  the  brief  moment  of  courting  sleep  feel 
the  pink  penumbra  of  her  vision  begin  to  glow. 

Of  late  years,  or,  more  specifically,  for  two  years  and  eight 
months,  another  picture  had  invaded,  even  superseded  the  old. 
A  stamp-photograph  likeness  of  Mr.  James  P.  Batch  in  the 
corner  of  Miss  Slayback's  mirror,  and  thereafter  No  Man's 
slippers  became  number  eight-and-a-half  C,  and  the  hearth  a 
gilded  radiator  in  a  dining-living-room  somewhere  between  the 
Fourteenth  Street  Subway  and  the  land  of  the  Bronx. 


BITTER-SWEET  137 

How  Miss  Slayback,  by  habit  not  gregarious,  met  Mr. 
Batch  is  of  no  consequence,  except  to  those  snug  ones  of  us 
to  whom  an  introduction  is  the  only  means  to  such  an  end. 

At  a  six  o'clock  that  invaded  even  Union  Square  with  helio 
trope  dusk,  Mr.  James  Batch  mistook,  who  shall  say  otherwise, 
Miss  Gertie  Slayback,  as  she  stepped  down  into  the  wintry 
shade  of  a  Subway  kiosk,  for  Miss  Whodoesitmatter.  At  seven 
o'clock,  over  a  dish  of  lamb  stew  a  la  White  Kitchen,  he  con 
fessed,  and  if  Miss  Slayback  affected  too  great  surprise  and  too 
little  indignation,  try  to  conceive  six  nine-hour  week-in-and 
week-out  days  of  hairpins  and  darning-balls,  and  then,  at  a 
heliotrope  dusk,  James  P.  Batch,  in  invitational  mood,  stepping 
in  between  it  and  the  papered  walls  of  a  dun-colored  evening. 
To  further  enlist  your  tolerance,  Gertie  Slayback's  eyes  were 
as  blue  as  the  noon  of  June,  and  James  P.  Batch,  in  a  belted- 
in  coat  and  five  kid  finger-points  protruding  ever  so  slightly 
and  rightly  from  a  breast  pocket,  was  hewn  and  honed  in  the 
image  of  youth.  His  the  smile  of  one  for  whom  life's  cup 
holds  a  heady  wine,  a  wrinkle  or  two  at  the  eye  only  serving  to 
enhance  that  smile;  a  one-inch  feather  stuck  upright  in  his 
derby  hatband. 

It  was  a  forelock  once  stamped  a  Corsican  with  the  look  of 
emperor.  It  was  this  hat  feather,  a  cock's  feather  at  that  and 
worn  without  sense  of  humor,  to  which  Miss  Slayback  was 
fond  of  attributing  the  consequences  of  that  heliotrope  dusk. 

"  It  was  the  feather  in  your  cap  did  it,  Jimmie.  I  can  see 
you  yet,  stepping  up  with  that  innocent  grin  of  yours.  You 
think  I  didn't  know  you  were  flirting?  Cousin  from  Long 
Island  City !  '  Say/  I  says  to  myself,  I  says,  '  I  look  as  much 
like  his  cousin  from  Long  Island  City,  if  he's  got  one,  as  my 
cousin  from  Hoboken  (and  I  haven't  got  any)  would  look 
like  my  sister  if  I  had  one.'  It  was  that  sassy  little  feather  in 
your  hat!  " 

They  would  laugh  over  this  ever-green  reminiscence  on  Sun 
day  park  benches  and  at  intermission  at  moving  pictures  when 


138  AMERICANS  ALL 

they  remained  through  it  to  see  the  show  twice.  Be  the  land 
lady's  front  parlor  ever  so  permanently  rented  out,  the  motion- 
picture  theater  has  brought  to  thousands  of  young  city  starve 
lings,  if  not  the  quietude  of  the  home,  then  at  least  the  warmth 
and  a  juxtaposition  and  a  deep  darkness  that  can  lave  the  sub- 
basement  throb  of  temples  and  is  filled  with  music  with  a 
hum  in  it. 

For  two  years  and  eight  months  of  Saturday  nights,  each 
one  of  them  a  semaphore  dropping  out  across  the  gray  road 
of  the  week,  Gertie  Slayback  and  Jimmie  Batch  dined  for  one 
hour  and  sixty  cents  at  the  White  Kitchen.  Then  arm  and 
arm  up  the  million-candle-power  flare  of  Broadway,  content, 
these  two  who  had  never  seen  a  lake  reflect  a  moon,  or  a  slim 
fir  pointing  to  a  star,  that  life  could  be  so  manifold.  And 
always,  too,  on  Saturday,  the  tenth  from  the  last  row  of  the 
De  Luxe  Cinematograph,  Broadway's  Best,  Orchestra  Chairs, 
fifty  cents;  Last  Ten  Rows,  thirty-five.  The  give  of  velvet- 
upholstered  chairs,  perfumed  darkness,  and  any  old  love  story 
moving  across  it  to  the  ecstatic  ache  of  Gertie  Slayback's  high 
young  heart. 

On  a  Saturday  evening  that  was  already  pointed  with  stars 
at  the  six-o'clock  closing  of  Hoffheimer's  Fourteenth  Street 
Emporium,  Miss  Slayback,  whose  blondness  under  fatigue 
could  become  ashy,  emerged  from  the  Bargain  Basement  al 
most  the  first  of  its  frantic  exodus,  taking  the  place  of  her 
weekly  appointment  in  the  entrance  of  the  Popular  Drug  Store 
adjoining,  her  gaze,  something  even  frantic  in  it,  sifting  the 
passing  crowd. 

At  six  o'clock  Fourteenth  Street  pours  up  from  its  base 
ments,  down  from  its  lofts,  and  out  from  its  five-and-ten-cent 
stores,  shows,  and  arcades,  in  a  great  homeward  torrent — a 
sweeping  torrent  that  flows  full  flush  to  the  Subway,  the  Ele 
vated,  and  the  surface  car,  and  then  spreads  thinly  into  the 
least  pretentious  of  the  city's  homes — the  five  flights  up,  the 
two  rooms  rear,  and  the  third  floor  back. 


BITTER-SWEET  139 

Standing  there,  this  eager  tide  of  the  Fourteenth  Street  Em 
porium,  thus  released  by  the  six-o'clock  flood-gates,  flowed  past 
Miss  Slayback.  White-nosed,  low-chested  girls  in  short-vamp 
shoes  and  no-carat  gold  vanity-cases.  Older  men  resigned 
that  ambition  could  be  flayed  by  a  yard-stick;  young  men  still 
impatient  of  their  clerkship. 

It  was  into  the  trickle  of  these  last  that  Miss  Slayback 
bored  her  glance,  the  darting,  eager  glance  of  hot  eyeballs  and 
inner  trembling.  She  was  not  so  pathetically  young  as  she 
was  pathetically  blond,  a  treacherous,  ready-to-fade  kind  of 
blondness  that  one  day,  now  that  she  had  found  that  very  morn 
ing  her  first  gray  hair,  would  leave  her  ashy. 

Suddenly,  with  a  small  catch  of  breath  that  was  audible  in 
her  throat,  Miss  Slayback  stepped  out  of  that  doorway,  squirm 
ing  her  way  across  the  tight  congestion  of  the  sidewalk  to  its 
curb,  then  in  and  out,  brushing  this  elbow  and  that  shoulder, 
worming  her  way  in  an  absolutely  supreme  anxiety  to  keep  in 
view  a  brown  derby  hat  bobbing  right  briskly  along  with  the 
crowd,  a  greenish-black  bit  of  feather  upright  in  its  band. 

At  Broadway,  Fourteenth  Street  cuts  quite  a  caper,  deploy 
ing  out  into  Union  Square,  an  island  of  park,  beginning  to  be 
succulent  at  the  first  false  feint  of  spring,  rising  as  it  were  from 
a  sea  of  asphalt.  Across  this  park  Miss  Slayback  worked  her 
rather  frenzied  way,  breaking  into  a  run  when  the  derby  threat 
ened  to  sink  into  the  confusion  of  a  hundred  others,  and  finally 
learning  to  keep  its  course  by  the  faint  but  distinguishing  fact 
of  a  slight  dent  in  the  crown.  At  Broadway,  some  blocks  before 
that  highway  bursts  into  its  famous  flare,  Mr.  Batch,  than  whom 
it  was  no  other,  turned  off  suddenly  at  right  angles  down  into  a 
dim  pocket  of  side-street  and  into  the  illuminated  entrance  of 
Ceiner's  Cafe  Hungarian.  Meals  at  all  hours.  Lunch,  thirty 
cents.  Dinner,  fifty  cents.  Our  Goulash  is  Famous. 

New  York,  which  expresses  itself  in  more  languages  to  the 
square  block  than  any  other  area  in  the  world,  Babylon  in 
cluded,  loves  thus  to  dine  linguistically,  so  to  speak.  To  the 


140  AMERICANS  ALL 

Crescent  Turkish  Restaurant  for  its  Business  Men's  Lunch 
comes  Fourth  Avenue,  whose  antique-shop  patois  reads  across 
the  page  from  right  to  left.  Sight-seeing  automobiles  on  mis 
sion  and  commission  bent  allow  Altoona,  Iowa  City,  and 
Quincy,  Illinois,  fifteen  minutes'  stop-in  at  Ching  Ling-Foo's 
Chinatown  Delmonico's.  Spaghetti  and  red  wine  have  set 
New  York  racing  to  reserve  its  table  d'hotes.  All  except  the 
Latin  race. 

Jimmie  Batch,  who  had  first  seen  light,  and  that  gaslight, 
in  a  block  in  lower  Manhattan  which  has  since  been  given  over 
to  a  milk-station  for  a  highly  congested  district,  had  the  palate, 
if  not  the  purse,  of  the  cosmopolite.  His  digestive  range  in 
cluded  borsch  and  chow  main;  risotta  and  "  ham  and." 

To-night,  as  he  turned  into  Cafe  Hungarian,  Miss  Slayback 
slowed  and  drew  back  into  the  overshadowing  protection  of 
an  adjoining  office-building.  She  was  breathing  hard,  and 
her  little  face,  somehow  smaller  from  chill,  was  nevertheless 
a  high  pink  at  the  cheek-bones. 

The  wind  swept  around  the  corner,  jerking  her  hat,  and 
her  hand  flew  up  to  it.  There  was  a  fair  stream  of  passers-by 
even  here,  and  occasionally  one  turned  for  a  backward  glance 
at  her  standing  there  so  frankly  indeterminate. 

Suddenly  Miss  Slayback  adjusted  her  tam-o'-shanter  to  its 
flop  over  her  right  ear,  and,  drawing  off  a  pair  of  dark-blue 
silk  gloves  from  over  immaculately  new  white  ones,  entered 
Ceiner's  Cafe  Hungarian.  In  its  light  she  was  not  so  obviously 
blonder  than  young,  the  pink  spots  in  her  cheeks  had  a  deepen 
ing  value  to  the  blue  of  her  eyes,  and  a  black  velvet  tam-o'- 
shanter  revealing  just  the  right  fringe  of  yellow  curls  is  no 
mean  aid. 

First  of  all,  Ceiner's  is  an  eating-place.  There  is  no  music 
except  at  five  cents  in  the  slot,  and  its  tables  for  four  are  per 
petually  set  each  with  a  dish  of  sliced  radishes,  a  bouquet  of 
celery,  and  a  mound  of  bread,  half  the  stack  rye.  Its  menus 
are  well  thumbed  and  badly  mimeographed.  Who  enters 


BITTER-SWEET  141 

Ceiner's  is  prepared  to  dine  from  barley  soup  to  apple  strudel. 
At  something  after  six  begins  the  rising  sound  of  cutlery,  and 
already  the  new-comer  fears  to  find  no  table. 

Off  at  the  side,  Mr.  Jimmie  Batch  had  already  disposed 
of  his  hat  and  gray  overcoat,  and  tilting  the  chair  opposite  him 
to  indicate  its  reservation,  shook  open  his  evening  paper, 
the  waiter  withholding  the  menu  at  this  sign  of  rendezvous. 

Straight  toward  that  table  Miss  Slayback  worked  quick, 
swift  way,  through  this  and  that  aisle,  jerking  back  and  seating 
herself  on  the  chair  opposite  almost  before  Mr.  Batch  could 
raise  his  eyes  from  off  the  sporting  page. 

There  was  an  instant  of  silence  between  them — the  kind 
of  silence  that  can  shape  itself  into  a  commentary  upon  the 
inefficacy  of  mere  speech — a  widening  silence  which,  as  they 
sat  there  facing,  deepened  until,  when  she  finally  spoke,  it  was 
as  if  her  words  were  pebbles  dropping  down  into  a  well. 

"  Don't  look  so  surprised,  Jimmie,"  she  said,  propping  her 
face  calmly,  even  boldly,  into  the  white-kid  palms.  "You 
might  fall  off  the  Christmas  tree." 

Above  the  snug,  four-inch  collar  and  bow  tie  Mr.  Batch's 
face  was  taking  on  a  dull  ox-blood  tinge  that  spread  back, 
even  reddening  his  ears.  Mr.  Batch  had  the  frontal  bone  of  a 
clerk,  the  horn-rimmed  glasses  of  the  literarily  astigmatic,  and 
the  sartorial  perfection  that  only  the  rich  can  afford  not  to 
attain. 

He  was  staring  now  quite  frankly,  and  his  mouth  had  fallen 
open.  "  Gert!  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Slayback,  her  insouciance  gaining  with 
his  discomposure,  her  eyes  widening  and  then  a  dolly  kind  of 
glassiness  seeming  to  set  in.  "  You  wasn't  expecting  me,  Jim 
mie?  " 

He  jerked  up  his  hand,  not  meeting  her  glance.  "  What's 
the  idea  of  the  comedy?  " 

"  You  don't  look  glad  to  see  me,  Jimmie." 

"  If  you — think  you're  funny." 


142  AMERICANS  ALL 

She  was  working  out  of  and  then  back  into  the  freshly 
white  gloves  in  a  betraying  kind  of  nervousness  that  belied 
the  toss  of  her  voice.  "Well,  of  all  things!  Mad-cat!  Mad, 
just  because  you  didn't  seem  to  be  expecting  me." 

"  I — There's  some  things  that  are  just  the  limit,  that's 
what  they  are.  Some  things  that  are  just  the  limit,  that  no  fel 
low  would  stand  from  any  girl,  and  this — this  is  one  of 
them." 

Her  lips  were  trembling  now.  "  You — you  bet  your  life 
there's  some  things  that  are  just  the  limit." 

He  slid  out  his  watch,  pushing  back.  "  Well,  I  guess  this 
place  is  too  small  for  a  fellow  and  a  girl  that  can  follow  him 
around  the  town  like  a — like " 

She  sat  forward,  grasping  the  table-sides,  her  chair  tilting 
with  her.  "  Don't  you  dare  to  get  up  and  leave  me  sitting 
here!  Jimmie  Batch,  don't  you  dare!  " 

The  waiter  intervened,  card  extended. 

"  We — we're  waiting  for  another  party,"  said  Miss  Slayback, 
her  hands  still  rigidly  over  the  table-sides  and  her  glance  like  a 
steady  drill  into  Mr.  Batch's  own. 

There  was  a  second  of  this  silence  while  the  waiter  withdrew, 
and  then  Mr.  Batch  whipped  out  his  watch  again,  a  gun-metal 
one  with  an  open  face. 

"  Now  look  here.  I  got  a  date  here  in  ten  minutes,  and 
one  or  the  other  of  us  has  got  to  clear.  You — you're  one  too 
many,  if  you  got  to  know  it." 

"  Oh,  I  do  know  it,  Jimmie!  I  been  one  too  many  for  the 
last  four  Saturday  nights.  I  been  one  too  many  ever  since 
May  Scully  came  into  five  hundred  dollars'  inheritance  and 
quit  the  Ladies'  Neckwear.  I  been  one  too  many  ever  since 
May  Scully  became  a  lady." 

"  If  I  was  a  girl  and  didn't  have  more  shame !  " 

"  Shame!  Now  you're  shouting,  Jimmie  Batch.  I  haven't 
got  shame,  and  I  don't  care  who  knows  it.  A  girl  don't  stop 
to  have  shame  when  she's  fighting  for  her  rights." 


BITTER-SWEET  143 

He  was  leaning  on  his  elbow,  profile  to  her.  "  That  movie 
talk  can't  scare  me.  You  can't  tell  me  what  to  do  and  what 
not  to  do.  IVe  given  you  a  square  deal  all  right.  There's 
not  a  word  ever  passed  between  us  that  ties  me  to  your 
apron-strings.  I  don't  say  I'm  not  without  my  obligations  to 
you,  but  that's  not  one  of  them.  No,  siree — no  apron-strings." 

"  I  know  it  isn't,  Jimmie.  You're  the  kind  of  a  fellow 
wouldn't  even  talk  to  himself  for  fear  of  committing  himself." 

"  I  got  a  date  here  now  any  minute,  Gert,  and  the  sooner 
you " 

"  You're  the  guy  who  passed  up  the  Sixty-first  for  the 
Safety  First  regiment." 

"  I'll  show  you  my  regiment  some  day." 

"  I — I  know  you're  not  tied  to  my  apron-strings,  Jimmie. 
I — I  wouldn't  have  you  there  for  anything.  Don't  you  think 
I  know  you  too  well  for  that?  That's  just  it.  Nobody  on 
God's  earth  knows  you  the  way  I  do.  I  know  you  better  than 
you  know  yourself." 

"  You  better  beat  it,  Gertie.    I  tell  you  I'm  getting  sore." 

Her  face  flashed  from  him  to  the  door  and  back  again,  her 
anxiety  almost  edged  with  hysteria.  "  Come  on,  Jimmie — out 
the  side  entrance  before  she  gets  here.  May  Scully  ain't  the 
company  for  you.  You  think  if  she  was,  honey,  I'd — I'd  see 
myself  come  butting  in  between  you  this  way,  like — like  a — 
common  girl?  She's  not  the  girl  to  keep  you  straight.  Honest 
to  God  she's  not,  honey." 

"  My  business  is  my  business,  let  me  tell  you  that." 

"  She's  speedy,  Jimmie.  She  was  the  speediest  girl  on  the 
main  floor,  and  now  that  she's  come  into  those  five  hundred, 
instead  of  planting  it  for  a  rainy  day,  she's  quit  work  and  gone 
plumb  crazy  with  it." 

"  When  I  want  advice  about  my  friends  I  ask  for  it." 

"  It's  not  the  good  name  that  worries  me,  Jimmie,  because 
she  ain't  got  any.  It's  you.  She's  got  you  crazy  with  that 
five  hundred,  too — that's  what's  got  me  scared." 


144  AMERICANS  ALL 

"  Gee!  you  ought  to  let  the  Salvation  Army  tie  a  bonnet 
under  your  chin." 

"  She's  always  had  her  eyes  on  you,  Jimmie.  Ain't  you 
men  got  no  sense  for  seein'  things?  Since  the  day  they  moved 
the  Gents'  Furnishings  across  from  the  Ladies'  Neckwear  she's 
had  you  spotted.  Her  goings-on  used  to  leak  down  to  the  base 
ment,  alrighty.  She's  not  a  good  girl,  May  ain't,  Jimmie.  She 
ain't,  and  you  know  it.  Is  she?  Is  she?  " 

"  Aw!  "  said  Jimmie  Batch. 

"You  see!  See!  Ain't  got  the  nerve  to  answer,  have 
you?  " 

"  Aw — maybe  I  know,  too  that  she's  not  the  kind  of  a  girl 
that  would  turn  up  where  she's  not " 

"  If  you  wasn't  a  classy-looking  kind  of  boy,  Jimmie,  that  a 
fly  girl  like  May  likes  to  be  seen  out  with,  she  couldn't  find 
you  with  magnifying  glasses,  not  if  you  was  born  with  the 
golden  rule  in  your  mouth  and  had  swallowed  it.  She's  not 
the  kind  of  girl,  Jimmie,  a  fellow  like  you  needs  behind  him. 
If — if  you  was  ever  to  marry  her  and  get  your  hands  on  them 
five  hundred  dollars " 

"  It  would  be  my  business." 

"  It'll  be  your  ruination.  You're  not  strong  enough  to 
stand  up  under  nothing  like  that.  With  a  few  hundred  unearned 
dollars  in  your  pocket  you — you'd  go  up  in  spontaneous  com 
bustion,  you  would." 

"  It  would  be  my  own  spontaneous  combustion." 

"  You  got  to  be  drove,  Jimmie,  like  a  kid.  With  them  few 
dollars  you  wouldn't  start  up  a  little  cigar-store  like  you  think 
you  would.  You  and  her  would  blow  yourselves  to  the  dogs 
in  two  months.  Cigar-stores  ain't  the  place  for  you,  Jimmie. 
You  seen  how  only  clerking  in  them  was  nearly  your  ruina 
tion — the  little  gambling-room-in-the-back  kind  that  you  pick 
out.  They  ain't  cigar-stores;  they're  only  false  faces  for 
gambling." 

"  You  know  it  all,  don't  you?  " 


BITTER-SWEET  145 

"Oh,  I'm  dealing  it  to  you  straight!  There's  too  many 
sporty  crowds  loafing  around  those  joints  for  a  fellow  like  you 
to  stand  up  under.  I  found  you  in  one,  and  as  yellow-fingered 
and  as  loafing  as  they  come,  a  new  job  a  week,  a " 

"  Yeh,  and  there  was  some  pep  to  variety,  too." 

"  Don't  throw  over,  Jimmie,  what  my  getting  you  out  of  it 
to  a  decent  job  in  a  department  store  has  begun  to  do  for  you. 
And  you're  making  good,  too.  Higgins  teld  me  to-day,  if  you 
don't  let  your  head  swell,  there  won't  be  a  fellow  in  the  depart 
ment  can  stack  up  his  sales-book  any  higher." 

"Aw!  " 

"  Don't  throw  it  all  over,  Jimmie — and  me — for  a  crop  of 
dyed  red  hair  and  a  few  dollars  to  ruin  yourself  with." 

He  shot  her  a  look  of  constantly  growing  nervousness,  his 
mouth  pulled  to  an  oblique,  his  glance  constantly  toward  the 
door. 

"  Don't  keep  no  date  with  her  to-night,  Jimmie.  You 
haven't  got  the  constitution  to  stand  her  pace.  It's  telling  on 
you.  Look  at  those  fingers  yellowing  again — looka ': 

"  They're  my  fingers,  ain't  they?  " 

"  You  see,  Jimmie,  I — I'm  the  only  person  in  the  world  that 
likes  you  just  for  what — you  ain't — and  hasn't  got  any  pipe 
dreams  about  you.  That's  what  counts,  Jimmie,  the  folks  that 
like  you  in  spite,  and  not  because  of." 

"  We  will  now  sing  psalm  number  two  hundred  and  twenty- 
three." 

"I  know  there's  not  a  better  fellow  in  the  world  if  he's 
kept  nailed  to  the  right  job,  and  I  know,  too,  there's  not  an 
other  fellow  can  go  to  the  dogs  any  easier." 

"  To  hear  you  talk,  you'd  think  I  was  about  six." 

"  I'm  the  only  girl  that'll  ever  be  willing  to  make  a  whip  out 
of  herself  that'll  keep  you  going  and  won't  sting,  honey.  I 
know  you're  soft  and  lazy  and  selfish  and " 

"  Don't  forget  any." 

"  And  I  know  you're  my  good-looking  good-for-nothing,  and 


146  AMERICANS  ALL 

I  know,  too,  that  you — you  don't  care  as  much — as  much  for 
me  from  head  to  toe  as  I  do  for  your  little  finger.  But  I — 
like  you  just  the  same,  Jimmie.  That — that's  what  I  mean 
about  having  no  shame.  I — do  like  you  so — so  terribly, 
Jimmie." 

"Aw  now— Gert!  " 

"  I  know  it,  Jimmie — that  I  ought  to  be  ashamed.  Don't 
think  I  haven't  cried  myself  to  sleep  with  it  whole  nights  in 
succession." 

"Aw  now— Gert!  " 

"  Don't  think  I  don't  know  it,  that  I'm  laying  myself  before 
you  pretty  common.  I  know  it's  common  for  a  girl  to — to  come 
to  a  fellow  like  this,  but — but  I  haven't  got  any  shame  about 
it — I  haven't  got  anything,  Jimmie,  except  fight  for — for  what's 
eating  me.  And  the  way  things  are  between  us  now  is  eating 
me." 

"  I Why,  I  got  a  mighty  high  regard  for  you,  Gert." 

"  There's  a  time  in  a  girl's  life,  Jimmie,  when  she's  been 
starved  like  I  have  for  something  of  her  own  all  her  days; 
there's  times,  no  matter  how  she's  held  in,  that  all  of  a  sud 
den  comes  a  minute  when  she  busts  out." 

"  I  understand,  Gert,  but " 

"  For  two  years  and  eight  months,  Jimmie,  life  has  got  to  be 
worth  while  living  to  me  because  I  could  see  the  day,  even  if 
we — you — never  talked  about  it,  when  you  would  be  made 
over  from  a  flip  kid  to — to  the  kind  of  a  fellow  would  want 
to  settle  down  to  making  a  little  two-by-four  home  for  us. 
A  little  two-by-four  all  our  own,  with  you  steady  on  the  job 
and  advanced  maybe  to  forty  or  fifty  a  week  and " 

"  For  God's  sake,  Gertie,  this  ain't  the  time  or  the  place 

"  Oh  yes,  it  is!  It's  got  to  be,  because  it's  the  first  time  in 
four  weeks  that  you  didn't  see  me  coming  first." 

"  But  not  now,  Gert.    I " 

"  I'm  not  ashamed  to  tell  you,  Jimmie  Batch,  that  I've  been 


BITTER-SWEET  147 

die  making  of  you  since  that  night  you  threw  the  wink  at  me. 
And — and  it  hurts,  this  does.  God!  how  it  hurts!  " 

He  was  pleating  the  table-cloth,  swallowing  as  if  his  throat 
had  constricted,  and  still  rearing  his  head  this  way  and  that 
in  the  tight  collar. 

"  I — never  claimed  not  to  be  a  bad  egg.  This  ain't  the 
time  and  the  place  for  rehashing,  that's  all.  Sure  you  been  a 
friend  to  me.  I  don't  say  you  haven't.  Only  I  can't  be  bossed 
by  a  girl  like  you.  I  don't  say  May  Scully's  any  better  than 
she  ought  to  be.  Only  that's  my  business.  You  hear?  my 
business.  I  got  to  have  life  and  see  a  darn  sight  more  future 
for  myself  than  selling  shirts  in  a  Fourteenth  Street  depart 
ment  store." 

"  May  Scully  can't  give  it  to  you — her  and  her  fast  crowd." 

"  Maybe  she  can  and  maybe  she  can't." 

"  Them  few  dollars  won't  make  you;  they'll  break  you." 

"  That's  for  her  to  decide,  not  you." 

"  I'll  tell  her  myself.    I'll  face  her  right  here  and " 

"  Now,  look  here,  if  you  think  I'm  going  to  be  let  in  for  a 
holy  show  between  you  two  girls,  you  got  another  think  com 
ing.  One  of  us  has  got  to  clear  out  of  here,  and  quick,  too. 
You  been  talking  about  the  side  door;  there  it  is.  In  five 
minutes  I  got  a  date  in  this  place  that  I  thought  I  could  keep 
like  any  law-abiding  citizen.  One  of  us  has  got  to  clear, 
and  quick,  too.  Gad!  you  wimmin  make  me  sick,  the  whole 
lot  of  you!  " 

"  If  anything  makes  you  sick,  I  know  what  it  is.  It's 
dodging  me  to  fly  around  all  hours  of  the  night  with  May 
Scully,  the  girl  who  put  the  tang  in  tango.  It's  eating  around  in 
swell  sixty-cent  restaurants  like  this  and " 

"  Gad!  your  middle  name  ought  to  be  Nagalene." 

"  Aw,  now,  Jimmie,  maybe  it  does  sound  like  nagging,  but  it 
ain't,  honey.  It — it's  only  my — my  fear  that  I'm  losing 
you,  and — and  my  hate  for  the  every-day  grind  of  things, 
and " 


348  AMERICANS  ALL 

"  I  can't  help  that,  can  I?  " 

"  Why,  there— there's  nothing  on  God's  earth  I  hate,  Jim* 
mie,  like  I  hate  that  Bargain-Basement.  When  I  think  it's 
down  there  in  that  manhole  I've  spent  the  best  years  of  my  life, 
I — I  wanna  die.  The  day  I  get  out  of  it,  the  day  I  don't  have 
to  punch  that  old  time-clock  down  there  next  to  the  Com 
plaints  and  Adjustment  Desk,  I — I'll  never  put  my  foot  below 
sidewalk  level  again  to  the  hour  I  die.  Not  even  if  it  was  to 
take  a  walk  in  my  own  gold-mine." 

"  It  ain't  exactly  a  garden  of  roses  down  there." 

"  Why,  I  hate  it  so  terrible,  Jimmie,  that  sometimes  I  wake 
up  nights  gritting  my  teeth  with  the  smell  of  steam-pipes  and 
the  tramp  of  feet  on  the  glass  sidewalk  up  over  me.  Oh,  God! 
you  dunno — you  dunno!  " 

"  When  it  comes  to  that,  the  main  floor  ain't  exactly  a 
maiden's  dream,  or  a  fellow's,  for  that  matter." 

"  With  a  man  it's  different.  It's  his  job  in  life,  earning, 
and — and  the  woman  making  the  two  ends  of  it  meet.  That's 
why,  Jimmie,  these  last  two  years  and  eight  months,  if  not  for 
what  I  was  hoping  for  us,  why — why — I — why,  on  your  twenty 
a  week,  Jimmie,  there's  nobody  could  run  a  flat  like  I  could. 
Why,  the  days  wouldn't  be  long  enough  to  putter  in.  I — 
Don't  throw  away  what  I  been  building  up  for  us,  Jimmie, 
step  by  step!  Don't,  Jimmie!  ' 

"  Good  Lord,  girl!     You  deserve  better'n  me." 

"  I  know  I  got  a  big  job,  Jimmie,  but  I  want  to  make  a 
man  out  of  you,  temper,  laziness,  gambling,  and  all.  You  got 
it  in  you  to  be  something  more  than  a  tango  lizard  or  a  cigar- 
store  bum,  honey.  It's  only  you  ain't  got  the  stuff  in  you  to 
stand  up  under  a  five-hundred-dollar  windfall  and — a — and  a 
sporty  girl.  If — if  two  glasses  of  beer  make  you  as  silly  as 
they  do,  Jimmie,  why,  five  hundred  dollars  would  land  you 
under  the  table  for  life." 

"  Aw — there  you  go  again!  " 

"  I  can't  help  it,  Jimmie.    It's  because  I  never  knew  a  fel- 


BITTER-SWEET  149 

low  had  what's  he's  cut  out  for  written  all  over  him  so. 
You're  a  born  clerk,  Jimmie." 

"  Sure,  I'm  a  slick  clerk,  but " 

"  You're  born  to  be  a  clerk,  a  good  clerk,  even  a  two- 
hundred-a-month  clerk,  the  way  you  can  win  the  trade,  but 
never  your  own  boss.  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about.  I  know 
your  measure  better  than  any  human  on  earth  can  ever  know 
your  measure.  I  know  things  about  you  that  you  don't  even 
know  yourself." 

"  I  never  set  myself  up  to  nobody  for  anything  I  wasn't." 

"  Maybe  not,  Jimmie,  but  I  know  about  you  and — and  that 
Central  Street  gang  that  time,  and " 

"You!  " 

"  Yes,  honey,  and  there's  not  another  human  living  but  me 
knows  how  little  it  was  your  fault.  Just  bad  company,  that 
was  all.  That's  how  much  I — I  love  you,  Jimmie,  enough  to 
understand  that.  Why,  if  I  thought  May  Scully  and  a  set-up 
in  business  was  the  thing  for  you,  Jimmie,  I'd  say  to  her,  I'd 
say,  if  it  was  like  taking  my  own  heart  out  in  my  hand  and 
squashing  it,  I'd  say  to  her,  I'd  say,  '  Take  him,  May.'  That's 
how  I — I  love  you,  Jimmie.  Oh,  ain't  it  nothing,  honey,  a 
girl  can  come  here  and  lay  herself  this  low  to  you " 

"  Well,  haven't  I  just  said  you — you  deserve  better." 

"  I  don't  want  better,  Jimmie.  I  want  you.  I  want  to 
take  hold  of  your  life  and  finish  the  job  of  making  it  the  kind 
we  can  both  be  proud  of.  Us  two,  Jimmie,  in — in  our  own 
decent  two-by-four.  Shopping  on  Saturday  nights.  Frying  in 
our  own  frying-pan  in  our  own  kitchen.  Listening  to  our  own 
phonograph  in  our  own  parlor.  Geraniums  and — and  kids — 
and — and  things.  Gas-logs.  Stationary  washtubs.  Jimmie! 
Jimmie!  " 

Mr.  James  P.  Batch  reached  up  for  his  hat  and  overcoat, 
cramming  the  newspaper  into  a  rear  pocket. 

"  Come  on,"  he  said,  stalking  toward  the  side  door  and  not 
waiting  to  see  her  to  her  feet. 


150  AMERICANS  ALL 

Outside,  a  banner  of  stars  was  over  the  narrow  street.  For 
a  chain  of  five  blocks  he  walked,  with  a  silence  and  speed  that 
Miss  Slayback  could  only  match  with  a  running  quickstep. 
But  she  was  not  out  of  breath.  Her  head  was  up,  and  her 
hand  where  it  hooked  into  Mr.  Batch's  elbow,  was  in  a  vise 
that  tightened  with  each  block. 

You  who  will  mete  out  no  other  approval  than  that  vouched 
for  by  the  stamp  of  time  and  whose  contempt  for  the  con 
temporary  is  from  behind  the  easy  refuge  of  the  classics,  suffer 
you  the  shuddering  analogy  that  between  Aspasia  who  inspired 
Pericles,  Theodora  who  suggested  the  Justinian  code,  and 
Gertie  Slayback  who  commandeered  Jimmie  Batch,  is  a  sister- 
ship  which  rounds  them,  like  a  lasso  thrown  back  into  time, 
into  one  and  the  same  petticoat  dynasty  behind  the  throne. 

True,  Gertie  Slayback's  mise  en  scene  was  a  two-room 
kitchenette  apartment  situated  in  the  Bronx  at  a  surveyor's 
farthest  point  between  two  Subway  stations,  and  her  present 
state  one  of  frequent  red-faced  forays  down  into  a  packing- 
case.  But  there  was  that  in  her  eyes  which  witchingly  bespoke 
the  conquered,  but  not  the  conqueror.  Hers  was  actually  the 
titillating  wonder  of  a  bird  which,  captured,  closes  its  wings,  that 
surrender  can  be  so  sweet. 

Once  she  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  packing-case,  dallying  with  a 
hammer,  then  laid  it  aside  suddenly,  to  cross  the  littered  room 
and  place  the  side  of  her  head  to  the  immaculate  waistcoat  of 
Mr.  Jimmie  Batch,  red-faced,  too,  over  wrenching  up  with 
hatchet-edge  a  barrel-top. 

"  Jimmie  darling,  I — I  just  never  will  get  over  your  finding 
this  place  for  us." 

Mr.  Batch  wiped  his  forearm  across  his  brow,  his  voice  jerk 
ing  between  the  squeak  of  nails  extracted  from  wood. 

"It  was  you,  honey.  You  give  me  the  to- let  ad.  and  I 
came  to  look,  that's  all." 

"  Just  the  samey,  it  was  my  boy  found  it.     If  you  hadn't 


BITTER-SWEET  151 

come  to  look  we  might  have  been  forced  into  taking  that  old 
dark  coop  over  on  Simpson  Street." 

"  What's  all  this  junk  in  this  barrel?  " 

"  Them's  kitchen  utensils,  honey." 

"  Kitchen  what?  " 

"  Kitchen  things  that  you  don't  know  nothing  about  except 
to  eat  good  things  out  of." 

"What's  this?" 

"  Don't  bend  it!     That's  a  celery-brush.    Ain't  it  cute?  " 

"  A  celery-brush!     Why  didn't  you  get  it  a  comb,  too?  " 

"  Ah,  now,  honey-bee,  don't  go  trying  to  be  funny  and 
picking  through  these  things  you  don't  know  nothing  about! 
They're  just  cute  things  I'm  going  to  cook  something  grand 
suppers  in,  for  my  something  awful  bad  boy." 

He  leaned  down  to  kiss  her  at  that.    "  Gee!  " 

She  was  standing,  her  shoulder  to  him  and  head  thrown  back 
against  his  chest.  She  looked  up  to  stroke  his  cheek,  her  face 
foreshortened. 

"  I'm  all  black  and  blue  pinching  myself,  Jimmie." 

"  Me  too." 

"  Every  night  when  I  get  home  from  working  here  in  the  flat 
I  say  to  myself  in  the  looking-glass,  I  say,  '  Gertie  Slay- 
back,  what  if  you're  only  dreamin'  ?  " 

"  Me  too." 

"I  say  to  myself,  < Are  you  sure  that  darling  flat  up  there, 
with  the  new  pink-and-white  wall-paper  and  the  furniture 
arriving  every  day,  is  going  to  be  yours  in  a  few  days  when 
you're  Mrs.  Jimmie  Batch?  ' " 

"  Mrs.  Jimmie  Batch — say,  that's  immense." 

"  I  keep  saying  it  to  myself  every  night,  '  One  day  less.' 
Last  night  it  was  two  days.  To-night  it'll  be — one  day,  Jim 
mie,  till  I'm— her." 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  let  her  hand  linger  up  to  his  cheek, 
head  still  back  against  him,  so  that,  inclining  his  head,  he 
could  rest  his  lips  in  the  ash-blond  fluff  of  her  hair. 


152  AMERICANS  ALL 

"  Talk  about  can't  wait!  If  to-morrow  was  any  farther  off 
they'd  have  to  sweep  out  a  padded  cell  for  me." 

She  turned  to  rumple  the  smooth  light  thatch  of  his  hair. 
"  Bad  boy!  Can't  wait!  And  here  we  are  getting  married 
all  of  a  sudden,  just  like  that.  Up  to  the  time  of  this  draft 
business,  Jimmie  Batch,  '  pretty  soon '  was  the  only  date  I 
could  ever  get  out  of  you,  and  now  here  you  are  crying  over 
one  day's  wait.  Bad  honey  boy!  " 

He  reached  back  for  the  pink  newspaper  so  habitually  pro 
truding  from  his  hip-pocket.  "  You  ought  to  see  the  way 
they're  neck-breaking  for  the  marriage-license  bureaus  since  the 
draft.  First  thing  we  know  the  whole  shebang  of  the  boys  will 
be  claiming  exemption  of  sole  support  of  wife." 

"  It's  a  good  thing  we  made  up  our  minds  quick,  Jimmie. 
They'll  be  getting  wise.  If  too  many  get  exemption  from 
the  army  by  marrying  right  away,  it'll  be  a  give-away." 

"  I'd  like  to  know  who  can  lay  his  hands  on  the  exemption 
of  a  little  wife  to  support." 

"Oh,  Jimmie,  it — it  sounds  so  funny.  Being  supported! 
Me  that  always  did  the  supporting,  not  only  to  me,  but  to  my 
mother  and  great-grandmother  up  to  the  day  they  died." 

"  I'm  the  greatest  little  supporter  you  ever  seen." 

"  Me  getting  up  mornings  to  stay  at  home  in  my  own 
darling  little  flat,  and  no  basement  or  time-clock.  Nothing 
but  a  busy  little  hubby  to  eat  him  nice,  smelly,  bacon  break 
fast  and  grab  him  nice  morning  newspaper,  kiss  him  wine,  and 
run  downtown  to  support  her.  Jimmie,  every  morning  for 
your  breakfast  I'm  going  to  fry " 

"  You  bet  your  life  he's  going  to  support  her,  and  he's  going 
to  pay  back  that  forty  dollars  of  his  girl's  that  went  into  his 
wedding  duds,  that  hundred  and  ninety  of  his  girl's  savings 
that  went  into  furniture " 

"  We  got  to  meet  our  instalments  every  month  first,  Jimmie. 
That's  what  we  want — no  debts  and  every  little  darling  piece 
of  furniture  paid  up." 


BITTER-SWEET  153 

«  We — I'm  going  to  pay  it,  too." 

"  And  my  Jimmie  is  going  to  work  to  get  himself  promoted 
and  quit  being  a  sorehead  at  his  steady  hours  and  all." 

"  I  know  more  about  selling,  honey,  than  the  whole  bunch  of 
dubs  in  that  store  put  together  if  they'd  give  me  a  chance  to 
prove  it." 

She  laid  her  palm  to  his  lips. 

"  'Shh-h-h!  You  don't  nothing  of  the  kind.  It's  not  con 
ceit,  it's  work  is  going  to  get  my  boy  his  raise." 

"  If  they'd  listen  to  me,  that  department  would " 

"  Sh-h-h!  J.  G.  Hoffheimer  don't  have  to  get  pointers  from 
Jimmie  Batch  how  to  run  his  department  store." 

"  There  you  go  again.  What's  J.  G.  Hoffheimer  got  that  I 
ain't?  Luck  and  a  few  dollars  in  his  pocket  that,  if  I  had  in 
mine,  would " 

"  It  was  his  own  grit  put  those  dollars  there,  Jimmie.  Just 
put  it  out  of  your  head  that  it's  luck  makes  a  self-made  man." 

"  Self-made!  You  mean  things  just  broke  right  for  him. 
That's  two-thirds  of  this  self-made  business." 

"  You  mean  he  buckled  right  down  to  brass  tacks,  and 
that's  what  my  boy  is  going  to  do." 

"  The  trouble  with  this  world  is  it  takes  money  to  make 
money.  Get  your  first  few  dollars,  I  always  say,  no  matter 
how,  and  then  when  you're  on  your  feet  scratch  your  conscience 
if  it  itches.  That's  why  I  said  in  the  beginning,  if  we  had  took 
that  hundred  and  ninety  furniture  money  and  staked  it  on " 

"Jimmie,  please — please!  You  wouldn't  want  to  take  a 
girl's  savings  of  years  and  years  to  gamble  on  a  sporty  cigar 
proposition  with  a  card-room  in  the  rear.  You  wouldn't,  Jim 
mie.  You  ain't  that  kind  of  fellow.  Tell  me  you  wouldn't, 
Jimmie." 

He  turned  away  to  dive  into  the  barrel.  "  Naw,"  he  said. 
"  I  wouldn't." 

The  sun  had  receded,  leaving  a  sudden  sullen  gray;  the 
little  square  room,  littered  with  an  upheaval  of  excelsior,  sheet- 


154  AMERICANS  ALL 

shrouded  furniture,  and  the  paper-hanger's  paraphernalia  and 
inimitable  smells,  darkening  and  seeming  to  chill. 

"  We  got  to  quit  now,  Jimmie.  It's  getting  dark  and  the  gas 
ain't  turned  on  in  the  meter  yet." 

He  rose  up  out  of  the  barrel,  holding  out  at  arm's-length 
what  might  have  been  a  tinsmith's  version  of  a  porcupine. 

"  What  in—    What's  this  thing  that  scratched  me?  " 

She  danced  to  take  it.  "  It's  a  grater,  a  darling  grater  for 
horseradish  and  nutmeg  and  cocoanut.  I'm  going  to  fix  you  a 
cocoanut  cake  for  our  honeymoon  supper  to-morrow  night, 
honey-bee.  Essie  Wohlgemuth  over  in  the  cake-demonstrating 
department  is  going  to  bring  me  the  recipe.  Cocoanut  cake! 
And  I'm  going  to  fry  us  a  little  steak  in  this  darling  little  skillet, 
Ain't  it  the  cutest!  " 

"  Cute  she  calls  a  tin  skillet." 

"Look  what's  pasted  on  it.  ' Little  Housewife's  Skillet. 
The  Kitchen  Fairy.'  That's  what  I'm  going  to  be,  Jimmie,  the 
kitchen  fairy.  Give  me  that.  It's  a  rolling-pin.  All  my  life 
I've  wanted  a  rolling-pin.  Look  honey,  a  litt'le  string  to  hang 
it  up  by.  I'm  going  to  hang  everything  up  in  rows.  It's  going 
to  look  like  Tiffany's  kitchen,  all  shiny.  Give  me,  honey; 
that's  an  egg-beater.  Look  at  it  whiz.  And  this — this  is  a 
pan  for  war  bread.  I'm  going  to  make  us  war  bread  to  help 
the  soldiers." 

"  You're  a  little  soldier  yourself,"  he  said. 

"  That's  what  I  would  be  if  I  was  a  man,  a  soldier  all  in 
brass  buttons." 

"  There's  a  bunch  of  the  fellows  going,"  said  Mr.  Batch, 
standing  at  the  window,  looking  out  over  roofs,  dilly-dallying 
up  and  down  on  his  heels  and  breaking  into  a  low,  contempla 
tive  thistle. 

She  was  at  his  shoulder,  peering  aver  it.  "  You  wouldn't  be 
afraid,  would  you,  Jimmie?  " 

"  You  bet  your  life  I  wouldn't." 

She  was  tiptoes  now,  her  arms  creeping  up  to  him.    "  Only 


BITTER-SWEET  155 

my  boy's  got  a  wife — a  brand-new  wifie  to  support,  ain't 
he?"  " 

"  That's  what  he  has,"  said  Mr.  Batch,  stroking  her  forearm, 
but  still  gazing  through  and  beyond  whatever  roofs  he  was 
seeing. 

"  Jimmie!  " 

"  Huh?  " 

"  Look!  We  got  a  view  of  the  Hudson  River  from  our  flat, 
just  like  we  lived  on  Riverside  Drive." 

"  All  the  Hudson  River  I  can  see  is  fifteen  smokestacks  and 
somebody's  wash-line  out." 

"  It  ain't  so.  We  got  a  grand  view.  Look!  Stand  on  tip 
toe,  Jimmie,  like  me.  There,  between  that  water-tank  on  that 
black  roof  over  there  and  them  two  chimneys.  See?  Watch 
my  finger.  A  little  stream  of  something  over  there  that  moves." 

"No,  I  don't  see." 

"Look,  honey-bee,  close!     See  that  little  streak?  " 

"  All  right,  then,  if  you  see  it  I  see  it." 

"  To  think  we  got  a  river  view  from  our  flat!  It's  like  liv 
ing  in  the  country.  I'll  peek  out  at  it  all  day  long.  God! 
honey,  I  just  never  will  be  over  the  happiness  of  being  done 
with  basements." 

"  It  was  swell  of  old  Higgins  to  give  us  this  half-Saturday. 
It  shows  where  you  stood  with  the  management,  Gert — this  and 
a  five-dollar  gold  piece.  Lord  knows  they  wouldn't  pony  up 
that  way  if  it  was  me  getting  married  by  myself." 

"  It's  because  my  boy  ain't  shown  them  down  there  yet  the 
best  that's  in  him.  You  just  watch  his  little  safety-first  wife 
see  to  it  that  from  now  on  he  keeps  up  her  record  of  never  in 
seven  years  pushing  the  time-clock  even  one  minute  late, 
and  that  he  keeps  his  stock  shelves  0.  K.  and  shows  his  depart 
ment  he's  a  corner-on." 

"  With  that  bunch  of  boobs  a  fellow's  got  a  swell  chance  to 
get  anywheres." 

"  It's  getting  late,  Jimmie.     It  don't  look  nice  for  us  to 


156  AMERICANS  ALL 

stay  here  so  late  alone,  not  till — to-morrow.  Ruby  and  Essie 
and  Charley  are  going  to  meet  us  in  the  minister's  back  parlor 
at  ten  sharp  in  the  morning.  We  can  be  back  here  by  noon  and 
get  the  place  cleared  up  enough  to  give  'em  a  little  lunch,  just 
a  fun  lunch  without  fixings." 

"  I  hope  the  old  guy  don't  waste  no  time  splicing  us.  It's 
one  of  the  things  a  fellow  likes  to  have  over  with." 

"  Jimmie!  Why,  it's  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the  world, 
like  a  garden  of  lilies  or — or  something,  a  marriage  ceremony 
is!  You  got  the  ring  safe,  honey-bee,  and  the  license?  " 

"  Pinned  in  my  pocket  where  you  put  'em,  Flirty  Gertie." 

"  Flirty  Gertie!  Now  you'll  begin  teasing  me  with  that  all 
our  life — the  way  I  didn't  slap  your  face  that  night  when  I 
should  have.  I  just  couldn't  have,  honey.  Goes  to  show  we 
were  just  cut  and  dried  for  each  other,  don't  it?  Me,  a  girl 
that  never  in  her  life  let  a  fellow  even  bat  his  eyes  at  her 
without  an  introduction.  But  that  night  when  you  winked, 
honey — something  inside  of  me  just  winked  back." 

"My  girl!  " 

"  You  mean  it,  boy?  You  ain't  sorry  about  nothing, 
Jimmie?  " 

"  Sorry?    Well,  I  guess  not!  " 

"  You  seen  the  way — she — May — you  seen  for  yourself  what 
she  was,  when  we  seen  her  walking,  that  next  night  afteif 
Ceiner's,  nearly  staggering,  up  Sixth  Avenue  with  Budge 
Evans." 

"  I  never  took  no  stock  in  her,  honey.  I  was  just  letting 
her  like  me." 

She  sat  back  on  the  box  edge,  regarding  him,  her  face  so 
soft  and  wont  to  smile  that  she  could  not  keep  its  composure, 

"  Get  me  my  hat  and  coat,  honey.  We'll  walk  down.  Got 
the  key?  " 

They  skirmished  in  the  gloom,  moving  through  slit-like  aisles 
of  furniture  and  packing-box. 

"Ouch!  " 


BITTER-SWEET  157 

"  Oh,  the  running  water  is  hot,  Jimmie,  just  like  the  ad. 
said!  We  got  red-hot  running  water  in  our  flat.  Close  the 
front  windows,  honey.  We  don't  want  it  to  rain  in  on  our 
new  green  sofa.  Not  till  it's  paid  for,  anyways." 

"  Hurry." 

"  I'm  ready." 

They  met  at  the  door,  kissing  on  the  inside  and  the  outside 
of  it;  at  the  head  of  the  fourth  and  the  third  and  the  second 
balustrade  down. 

"  We'll  always  make  'em  little  love  landings,  Jimmie,  so  we 
can't  ever  get  tired  climbing  them." 

"  Yep." 

Outside  there  was  still  a  pink  glow  in  a  clean  sky.  The 
first  flush  of  spring  in  the  air  had  died,  leaving  chill.  They 
walked  briskly,  arm  in  arm,  down  the  asphalt  incline  of  side 
walk  leading  from  their  apartment-house,  a  new  street  of 
canned  homes  built  on  a  hillside — the  sepulchral  abode  of  the 
city's  trapped  whose  only  escape  is  down  the  fire-escape,  and 
then  only  when  the  alternative  is  death.  At  the  base  of  the  hill 
there  flows,  in  constant  hubbub,  a  great  up-and-down  artery  of 
street,  repeating  itself,  mile  after  mile,  in  terms  of  the  butcher, 
the  baker,  and  the  every-other-corner  drug-store  of  a  million 
dollar  corporation.  Housewives  with  perambulators  and  oil 
cloth  shopping  bags.  Children  on  roller-skates.  The  din  of 
small  tradesmen  and  the  humdrum  of  every  city  block  where 
the  homes  remain  unboarded  all  summer,  and  every  wife  is  on 
haggling  terms  with  the  purveyor  of  her  evening  roundsteak 
and  mess  of  rutabaga. 

Then  there  is  the  soap-box  provender,  too,  sure  of  a  crowd, 
offering  creed,  propaganda,  patent  medicine,  and  politics.  It 
is  the  pulpit  of  the  reformer  and  the  housetop  of  the  fanatic, 
this  soap-box.  From  it  the  voice  to  the  city  is  often  a  pious 
one,  an  impious  one,  and  almost  always  a  raucous  one.  Luther 
and  Sophocles  and  even  a  Citizen  of  Nazareth  made  of  the 
four  winds  of  the  street  corner  the  walls  of  a  temple  of  wis- 


158  AMERICANS  ALL 

dom.  What  more  fitting  acropolis  for  freedom  of  speech  than 
the  great  out-of-doors! 

Turning  from  the  incline  of  cross-street  into  this  petty  Bag 
dad  of  the  petty  wise,  the  voice  of  the  street  corner  lifted 
itself  above  the  inarticulate  din  of  the  thoroughfare.  A  youth, 
thewed  like  an  ox,  surmounted  on  a  stack  of  three  self-provided 
canned-goods  boxes,  his  in-at-the-waist  silhouette  thrown  out 
against  a  sky  that  was  almost  ready  to  break  out  in  stars;  a 
crowd  tightening  about  him. 

"  It's  a  soldier-boy  talking  Gert." 

"  If  it  ain't!  "  They  tiptoed  at  the  fringe  of  the  circle,  heads 
back. 

"  Look,  Gert,  he's  a  lieutenant;  he's  got  a  shoulder-bar.  And 
those  four  down  there  holding  the  flag  are  just  privates.  You 
can  always  tell  a  lieutenant  by  the  bar." 

"  Uh-huh." 

"  Say,  them  boys  do  stack  up  some  for  Uncle  Sam." 

"  >Shh-h-h,  Jimmie!  " 

"  I'm  here  to  tell  you  that  them  boys  stack  up  some." 

A  banner  stiffened  out  in  the  breeze,  Mr.  Batch  reading: 
"  Enlist  before  you  are  drafted.  Last  chance  to  beat  the  draft. 
Prove  your  patriotism.  Enlist  now!  Your  country  calls!  " 

"  Come  on,"  said  Mr.  Batch. 

"  Wait.    I  want  to  hear  what  he's  saying." 

".  .  .  there's  not  a  man  here  before  me  can  afford  to  shirk 
his  duty  to  his  country.  The  slacker  can't  get  along  without 
his  country,  but  his  country  can  very  easily  get  along  without 
him." 

Cheers. 

"  The  poor  exemption  boobs  are  already  running  for  doc 
tors'  certificates  and  marriage  licenses,  but  even  if  they  get  by 
with  it — and  it  is  ninety-nine  to  one  they  won't — they  can't 
run  away  from  their  own  degradation  and  shame." 

"  Come  on,  Jimmie." 

"  Wait." 


BITTER-SWEET  159 

"  Men  of  America,  for  every  one  of  you  who  tries  to  dodge 
his  duty  to  his  country  there  is  a  yellow  streak  somewhere 
underneath  the  hide  of  you.  Women  of  America,  every  one 
of  you  that  helps  to  foster  the  spirit  of  cowardice  in  your  par 
ticular  man  or  men  is  helping  to  make  a  coward.  It's  the 
cowards  and  the  quitters  and  the  slackers  and  dodgers  that 
need  this  war  more  than  the  patriotic  ones  who  are  willing  to 
buckle  on  and  go! 

"  Don't  be  a  buttonhole  patriot!  A  government  that  is  good 
enough  to  live  under  is  good  enough  to  fight  under!  " 

Cheers. 

"  If  there  is  any  reason  on  earth  that  has  manifested  itself 
for  this  devastating  and  terrible  war  it  is  that  it  has  been  a 
maker  of  men. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  am  back  from  four  months  in 
the  trenches  with  the  French  army,  and  I've  come  home,  now 
that  my  own  country  is  at  war,  to  give  her  every  ounce  of 
energy  I've  got  to  offer.  As  soon  as  a  hole  in  my  side  is 
healed  up  I'm  going  back  to  those  trenches,  and  I  want  to 
say  to  you  that  them  four  months  of  mine  face  to  face  with  life 
and  with  death  have  done  more  for  me  than  all  my  twenty- four 
civilian  years  put  together." 

Cheers. 

"  I'll  be  a  different  man,  if  I  live  to  come  back  home  after 
this  war  and  take  up  my  work  again  as  a  draftsman.  Why, 
I've  seen  weaklings  and  self-confessed  failures  and  even  nin 
nies  go  into  them  trenches  and  come  out — oh  yes,  plenty  of 
them  do  come  out — men.  Men  that  have  got  close  enough 
down  to  the  facts  of  things  to  feel  new  realizations  of  what 
life  means  come  over  them.  Men  that  have  gotten  back  their 
pep,  their  ambitions,  their  unselfishness.  That's  what  war  can 
do  for  your  men,  you  women  who  are  helping  them  to  foster 
the  spirit  of  holding  back,  of  cheating  their  government.  That's 
what  war  can  do  for  your  men.  Make  of  them  the  kind  of 
men  who  some  day  can  face  their  children  without  having 


160  AMERICANS  ALL 

to  hang  their  heads.  Men  who  can  answer  for  their  part  in 
making  the  world  a  safe  place  for  democracy." 

An  hour  they  stood  there,  the  air  quieting  but  chilling,  and 
lavishly  sown  stars  cropping  out.  Street  lights  had  come  out, 
too,  throwing  up  in  ever  darker  relief  the  figure  above  the 
heads  of  the  crowd.  His  voice  had  coarsened  and  taken  on  a 
raw  edge,  but  every  gesture  was  flung  from  the  socket,  and 
from  where  they  had  forced  themselves  into  the  tight  circle 
Gertie  Slayback,  her  mouth  fallen  open  and  her  head  still  back, 
could  see  the  sinews  of  him  ripple  under  khaki  and  the  dia 
phragm  lift  for  voice. 

There  was  a  shift  of  speakers  then,  this  time  a  private,  still 
too  rangy,  but  his  looseness  of  frame  seeming  already  to  con 
form  to  the  exigency  of  uniform. 

"  Come  on,  Jimmie.     I — I'm  cold." 

They  worked  out  into  the  freedom  of  the  sidewalk,  and  for 
ten  minutes,  down  blocks  of  petty  shops  already  lighted,  walked 
in  a  silence  that  grew  apace. 

He  was  suddenly  conscious  that  she  was  crying,  quietly,  her 
handkerchief  wadded  against  her  mouth.  He  strode  on  with  ^ 
scowl  and  his  head  bent. 

"  Let's  sit  down  in  this  little  park,  Jimmie.    I'm  tired." 

They  rested  on  a  bench  on  one  of  those  small  triangles  of 
breathing-space  which  the  city  ekes  out  now  and  then;  mill 
ends  of  land  parcels. 

He  took  immediately  to  roving  the  toe  of  his  shoe  in  and 
out  among  the  gravel.  She  stole  out  her  hand  to  his  arm. 

"  Well,  Jimmie?  "  Her  voice  was  in  the  gauze  of  a  whisper 
that  hardly  left  her  throat. 

"  Well,  what?  "  he  said,  still  toeing. 

"  There — there's  a  lot  of  things  we  never  thought  about, 
Jimmie." 

"Aw!  " 

"  Eh,  Jimmie?  " 

"  You  mean  you  never  thought  about," 


BITTER-SWEET  161 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  know  what  I  mean  alrighty." 

"  i — i  Was  the  one  that  suggested  it,  Jimmie,  but — but  you 
fell  in.  I — I  just  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  it,  Jimmie — your 
going  and  all.  I  suggested  it,  but — you  fell  in." 

"  Say,  when  a  fellow's  shoved  he  falls.  I  never  gave  a 
thought  to  sneaking  an  exemption  until  it  was  put  in  my  head. 
I'd  smash  the  fellow  in  the  face  that  calls  me  coward,  I 
will." 

"  You  could  have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather,  Jim 
mie,  looking  at  it  his  way,  all  of  a  sudden." 

"  You  couldn't  me.  Don't  think  I  was  ever  strong  for  the 
whole  business.  I  mean  the  exemption  part.  I  wasn't  going 
to  say  nothing.  What's  the  use,  seeing  the  way  you  had  your 
heart  set  on — on  things?  But  the  whole  business,  if  you  want 
to  know  it,  went  against  my  grain.  I'll  smash  the  fellow  in 
the  face  that  calls  me  a  coward." 

"  I  know,  Jimmie;  you — you're  right.  It  was  me  suggested 
hurrying  things  like  this.  Sneakin'!  Oh,  God!  ain't  I  the 
messer-up!  " 

"  Lay  easy,  girl.  I'm  going  to  see  it  through.  I  guess 
there's  been  fellows  before  me  and  will  be  after  me  who  have 
done  worse.  I'm  going  to  see  it  through.  All  I  got  to  say  is 
I'll  smash  up  the  fellow  calls  me  coward.  Come  on,  forget  it. 
Let's  go." 

She  was  close  to  him,  her  cheek  crinkled  against  his  with 
the  frank  kind  of  social  unconsciousness  the  park  bench  seems 
to  engender. 

"  Come  on,  Gert.    I  got  a  hunger  on." 

"  'Shh-h-h,  Jimmie!     Let  me  think.     I'm  thinking." 

"  Too  much  thinking  killed  a  cat.    Come  on." 

"Jimmie!  " 

"  Huh?  " 

"  Jimmie — would  you — had  you  ever  thought  about  being  a 
soldier?  " 


1 62  AMERICANS  ALL 

"  Sure.  I  came  in  an  ace  of  going  into  the  army  that  time 
after — after  that  little  Central  Street  trouble  of  mine.  I've 
got  a  book  in  my  trunk  this  minute  on  military  tactics. 
Wouldn't  surprise  me  a  bit  to  see  me  land  in  the  army  some 
day." 

"  It's  a  fine  thing,  Jimmie,  for  a  fellow — the  army." 

"Yeh,  good  for  what  ails  him." 

She  drew  him  back,  pulling  at  his  shoulder  so  that  finally 
he  faced  her.  "  Jimmie!  " 

"  Huh?  " 

"  I  got  an  idea." 

"  Shoot." 

"  You  remember  once,  honey-bee,  how  I  put  it  to  you  that 
night  at  Ceiner's  how,  if  it  was  for  your  good,  no  sacrifice  was 
too  much  to  make." 

"  Forget  it." 

"  You  didn't  believe  it." 

"  Aw,  say  now,  what's  the  use  digging  up  ancient  his 
tory?  " 

"  You'd  be  right,  Jimmie,  not  to  believe  it.  I  haven't  lived 
up  to  what  I  said." 

"  Oh  Lord,  honey!  What's  eating  you  now?  Come  to  the 
point." 

She  would  not  meet  his  eyes,  turning  her  head  from  him 
to  hide  lips  that  would  quiver.  "  Honey,  it — it  ain't  coming 
off — that's  all.  Not  now — anyways." 

ft  What  ain't?  " 

"  Us." 

"  Who?  " 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,  Jimmie.  It's  like  everything  the 
soldier  boy  on  the  corner  just  said.  I — I  saw  you  getting  red 
clear  behind  your  ears  over  it.  I — I  was,  too,  Jimmie.  It's 
like  that  soldier  boy  was  put  there  on  that  corner  just  to 
show  me,  before  it  was  too  late,  how  wrong  I  been  in  every  one 
of  my  ways.  Us  women  who  are  helping  to  foster  slackers. 


BITTER-SWEET  163 

That's  what  we're  making  of  them — slackers  for  life.  And 
here  I  been  thinking  it  was  your  good  I  had  in  mind,  when  all 
along  it's  been  mine.  That's  what  it's  been,  mine!  " 

"  Aw,  now,  Gert " 

"  You  got  to  go,  Jimmie.  You  got  to  go,  because  you  want  to 
go  and — because  I  want  you  to  go." 

"  Where?  " 

"  To  war." 

He  took  hold  of  her  two  arms  because  they  were  trembling. 
"  Aw,  now,  Gert,  I  didn't  say  anything  complaining.  I " 

"  You  did,  Jimmie,  you  did,  and — and  I  never  was  so  glad 
over  you  that  you  did  complain.  I  just  never  was  so  glad.  I 
want  you  to  go,  Jimmie.  I  want  you  to  go  and  get  a  man  made 
out  of  you.  They'll  make  a  better  job  out  of  you  than  ever 
I  can.  I  want  you  to  get  the  yellow  streak  washed  out.  I 
want  you  to  get  to  be  all  the  things  he  said  you  would.  For 
every  line  he  was  talking  up  there,  I  could  see  my  boy  coming 
home  to  me  some  day  better  than  anything  I  could  make  out 
of  him,  babying  him  the  way  I  can't  help  doing.  I  could  see 
you,  honey-bee,  coming  back  to  me  with  the  kind  of  lift  to 
your  head  a  fellow  has  when  he's  been  fighting  to  make  the 
world  a  safe  place  for  dem — for  whatever  it  was  he  said.  I 
want  you  to  go,  Jimmie.  I  want  you  to  beat  the 
draft,  too.  Nothing  on  earth  can  make  me  not  want  you 
to  go." 

"  Why,  Gert— you're  kiddin'!  " 

"  Honey,  you  want  to  go,  don't  you?  You  want  to  square 
up  those  shoulders  and  put  on  khaki,  don't  you?  Tell  me  you 
want  to  go!  " 

"  Why— why,  yes,  Gert,  if " 

"  Oh,  you're  going,  Jimmie!    You're  going!  " 

"Why,  girl — you're  crazy!  Our  flat!  Our  furniture — 
our " 

"What's  a  flat?  What's  furniture?  What's  anything? 
There's  not  a  firm  in  business  wouldn't  take  back  a  boy's  furni- 


1 64  AMERICANS  ALL 

ture — a  boy's  everything — that's  going  out  to  fight  for — for 
dem-o-cracy!     What's  a  flat?    What's  anything?  " 
He  let  drop  his  head  to  hide  his  eyes. 

Do  you  know  it  is  said  that  on  the  Desert  of  Sahara,  the 
slope  of  Sorrento,  and  the  marble  of  Fifth  Avenue  the  sun  can 
shine  whitest?  There  is  an  iridescence  to  its  glittering  on 
bleached  sand,  blue  bay,  and  Carrara  facade  that  is  sheer  light 
distilled  to  its  utmost. 

On  one  such  day  when,  standing  on  the  high  slope  of  Fifth 
Avenue  where  it  rises  toward  the  Park,  and  looking  down  on 
it,  surging  to  and  fro,  it  was  as  if,  so  manifest  the  brilliancy, 
every  head  wore  a  tin  helmet,  parrying  sunlight  at  a  thousand 
angles  of  refraction. 

Parade-day,  all  this  glittering  midstream  is  swept  to  the 
clean  sheen  of  a  strip  of  moire,  this  splendid  desolation  blocked 
on  each  side  by  crowds  half  the  density  of  the  sidewalk. 

On  one  of  these  sun-drenched  Saturdays  dedicated  by  a  grow 
ing  tradition  to  this  or  that  national  expression,  the  Ninety- 
ninth  Regiment,  to  a  flare  of  music  that  made  the  heart  leap 
out  against  its  walls,  turned  into  a  scene  thus  swept  clean  for 
it,  a  wave  of  olive  drab,  impeccable  row  after  impeccable  row 
of  scissors-like  legs  advancing.  Recruits,  raw  if  you  will,  but 
already  caparisoned,  sniffing  and  scenting,  as  it  were,  for  the 
great  primordial  mire  of  war. 

There  is  no  state  of  being  so  finely  sensitized  as  national  con 
sciousness.  A  gauntlet  down,  and  it  surges  up.  One  ripple  of  a 
flag  defended  can  goose-flesh  a  nation.  How  bitter  and  how 
sweet  it  is  to  give  a  soldier! 

To  the  seething  kinetic  chemistry  of  such  mingling  emotions 
there  were  women  who  stood  in  the  frontal  crowds  of  the  side 
walks  stifling  hysteria,  or  ran  after  in  terror  at  sight  of  one  so 
personally  hers,  receding  in  that  great  impersonal  wave  of  olive 
drab. 

And  yet  the  air  was  martial  with  banner  and  with  shout. 


BITTER-SWEET  165 

And  the  ecstasy  of  such  moments  is  like  a  dam  against  reality, 
pressing  it  back.  It  is  in  the  pompless  watches  of  the  night  or 
of  too  long  days  that  such  dams  break,  excoriating. 

For  the  thirty  blocks  of  its  course  Gertie  Slayback  followed 
that  wave  of  men,  half  run  and  half  walk.  Down  from  the 
curb,  and  at  the  beck  and  call  of  this  or  that  policeman  up 
again,  only  to  find  opportunity  for  still  another  dive  out  from 
the  invisible  roping  off  of  the  sidewalk  crowds. 

From  the  middle  of  his  line,  she  could  see,  sometimes,  the 
tail  of  Jimmie  Batch's  glance  roving  for  her,  but  to  all  pur 
ports  his  eye  was  solely  for  his  own  replica  in  front  of  him, 
and  at  such  times,  when  he  marched,  his  back  had  a  little 
additional  straightness  that  was  almost  swayback. 

Nor  was  Gertie  Slayback  crying.  On  the  contrary,  she  was 
inclined  to  laughter.  A  little  too  inclined  to  a  high  and  brittle 
sort  of  dissonance  over  which  she  seemed  to  have  no  control. 

"  'By,  Jimmie.    So  long!     Jimmie!     You-hoo!  " 

Tramp.    Tramp.    Tramp- tramp- tramp. 

"You-hoo!     Jimmie!     So  long,  Jimmie!  " 

At  Fourteenth  Street,  and  to  the  solemn  stroke  of  one  from 
a  tower,  she  broke  off  suddenly  without  even  a  second  look 
back,  dodging  under  the  very  arms  of  the  crowd  as  she  ran  out 
from  it. 

She  was  one  and  three-quarter  minutes  late  when  she  punched 
the  time-clock  beside  the  Complaints  and  Adjustment  Desk  in 
the  Bargain-Basement. 


FANNIE  HURST 

"  I  find  myself  at  twenty-nine  exactly  where  at  fourteen  I 
had  planned  I  would  be."  So  Miss  Hurst,  in  a  sketch  written 
for  the  American  Magazine  (March,  1919),  sums  up  the  story 
of  a  remarkable  literary  career. 

Fannie  Hurst  was  born  in  St.  Louis,  October  19,  1889.  She 
attended  the  public  schools,  and  began  to  write — with  the 
firm  intention  of  becoming  an  author — before  she  was  out  of 
grammar  school.  "  At  fourteen,"  she  tells  us  in  the  article 
just  referred  to,  "  the  one  pigeon-hole  of  my  little  girl's  desk 
was  already  stuffed  with  packets  of  rejected  verse  which  had 
been  furtively  written,  furtively  mailed,  and  still  more  fur 
tively  received  back  again  by  heading  off  the  postman  a  block 
before  he  reached  our  door."  To  this  dream  of  authorship — 
the  secret  of  which  was  carefully  guarded  from  her  family — 
she  sacrificed  her  play  and  even  her  study  hours.  The  first 
shock  to  her  family  came  on  St.  Valentine's  Day.  There  was 
to  be  a  party  that  night,  her  first  real  party.  A  new  dress  was 
ready  for  the  occasion,  and  a  boy  escort  was  to  call  for  her  in 
a  cab.  It  happened  that  Valentine's  day  fell  on  Saturday, 
and  Saturday  was  her  time  for  writing.  That  day  she  turned 
from  poetry  to  fiction,  and  was  just  in  the  middle  of  her  first 
story  when  it  came  time  to  get  ready  for  the  party.  She  did 
not  get  ready.  The  escort  arrived,  cab  and  all;  the  family 
protested,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  She  finished  the  story, 
mailed  it,  three  weeks  later  received  it  back,  and  began  her 
second  story.  All  through  her  high  school  days  she  mailed 
a  manuscript  every  Saturday,  and  they  always  came  back. 

After  high  school  she  entered  Washington  University,  St. 
Louis,  graduating  in  1909.  And  still  she  kept  writing.  To 

166 


FANNIE  HURST  167 

one  journal  alone  she  sent  during  those  four  years,  thirty-four 
short  stories.  And  they  all  came  back — all  but  one.  Just  be 
fore  graduation  she  sold  her  first  article,  a  little  sketch  first 
written  as  a  daily  theme,  which  was  published  in  a  local  weekly, 
and  brought  her  three  dollars.  This  was  the  total  result  of 
eight  years'  literary  effort.  So  quite  naturally  she  determined 
to  go  on. 

She  announced  to  her  family  that  she  was  going  to  New 
York  City  to  become  a  writer.  There  was  a  stormy  discussion 
in  the  Hurst  family,  but  it  ended  in  her  going  away,  with  a 
bundle  of  manuscripts  in  her  trunk,  to  brave  the  big  city  alone. 
She  found  a  tiny  furnished  room  and  set  forth  to  besiege  the 
editors'  offices.  One  evening  she  returned,  to  find  the  house 
being  raided,  a  patrol  wagon  at  the  curb,  and  the  lodgers 
being  hustled  into  it.  She  crossed  the  street  and  walked  on, 
and  never  saw  her  bag  or  baggage  again.  By  the  help  of  the 
Young  Women's  Christian  Association  she  found  another  room, 
in  different  surroundings,  and  set  out  again  to  make  the  round 
of  the  editorial  offices. 

Then  followed  months  and  months  of  "  writing,  rewriting, 
rejections,  and  re-rejections."  From  home  came  letters  now 
beseeching,  now  commanding  her  to  return,  and  at  length  cut 
ting  off  her  allowance.  So  she  returned  her  rented  typewriter 
and  applied  at  a  theatrical  agency.  She  secured  a  small  part 
in  a  Broadway  company,  and  then  came  her  first  acceptance 
of  a  story,  with  an  actual  check  for  thirty  dollars.  She  left 
the  stage  and  rented  another  typewriter, — but  it  was  six 
months  before  she  sold  another  story. 

In  all  this  time  she  dipped  deeply  into  the  great  stream  of  the 
city's  life.  To  quote  her  own  account: 

For  a  month  I  lived  with  an  Armenian  family  on  West  Broad 
way,  in  a  room  over  a  tobacconist's  shop.  I  apprenticed  myself  as 
a  sales-girl  in  New  York's  most  gigantic  department  store.  Four 
and  one-quarter  yards  of  ribbon  at  seven  and  a  half  cents  a  yard 
proved  my  Waterloo,  and  my  resignation  at  the  end  of  one  week 


1 68  AMERICANS  ALL 

was  not  entirely  voluntary.  I  served  as  waitress  in  one  of  New 
York's  most  gigantic  chain  of  white-tiled  lunch  rooms.  I  stitched 
boys'  pants  in  a  Polish  sweatshop,  and  lived  for  two  days  in  New 
York's  most  rococo  hotel.  I  took  a  graduate  course  in  Anglo  Saxon 
at  Columbia  University,  and  one  in  lamp-shade  making  at  Wana- 
maker's :  wormed  into  a  Broadway  musical  show  as  wardrobe  girl, 
and  went  out  on  a  self-appointed  newspaper  assignment  to  interview 
the  mother  of  the  richest  baby  in  the  world. 


All  these  experiences  yielded  rich  material  for  stories,  but 
no  one  would  print  them.  Her  money  was  gone ;  so  was  a  dia 
mond  ring  that  had  been  a  Commencement  present;  it  seemed 
as  if  there  was  nothing  left  but  to  give  up  the  struggle  and  go 
back  home.  Then,  just  as  she  had  struck  bottom,  an  editor 
actually  told  her  she  could  write,  and  followed  up  his  remark  by 
buying  three  stories.  Since  that  time  she  has  never  had  a  story 
rejected,  and  her  checks  have  gone  up  from  two  figures  into  four. 
And  so,  at  the  end  of  a  long  fight,  as  she  says,  "  I  find  myself 
at  twenty-nine  exactly  where  at  fourteen  I  had  planned  I  would 
be.  And  best  of  all,  what  popular  success  I  am  enjoying  has 
come  not  from  pandering  to  popular  demand  or  editorial  policy, 
but  from  pandering  to  my  own  inner  convictions,  which  are 
like  little  soul-tapers,  lighting  the  way." 

All  her  work  has  been  in  the  form  of  the  short  story.  Her 
first  book,  Just  Around  the  Corner,  published  in  1914,  is  a  col 
lection  of  stories  dealing  with  the  life  of  working  girls  in  a 
city.  Every  Soul  Hath  Its  Song  is  a  similar  collection;  the 
title  suggests  the  author's  outlook  upon  life.  Some  one  has 
said  that  in  looking  at  a  puddle  of  water,  you  may  see  either 
the  mud  at  the  bottom  or  the  sky  reflected  on  its  surface.  Miss 
Hurst  sees  the  reflection  of  the  sky.  The  Boston  Transcript 
said  of  this  book:  "  Here  at  last  is  a  story  writer  who  is  bent 
on  listening  to  the  voices  of  America  and  interpreting  them." 
Gaslight  Sonatas,  from  which  "  Bitter-Sweet  "  is  taken,  showed 
an  advance  over  her  earlier  work.  Two  of  the  stories  from  this 
volume  were  selected  by  Mr.  O'Brien  for  his  volume,  Best 


FANNIE  HURST  169 

Short  Stories,  for  1916  and  1917.  Humor esque,  her  latest 
work,  continues  her  studies  of  city  types,  drawn  from  New 
York  and  St.  Louis.  The  stories  show  her  insight  into  character 
and  her  graphic  descriptive  power.  Miss  Hurst  is  also  the 
author  of  two  plays,  The  Land  oj  the  Free  and  The  Good 
Provider. 


IN  THE  LUMBER  COUNTRY 


The  men  of  the  woods  are  not  as  the  men  of  the  cities.  The 
great  open  spaces  where  men  battle  with  the  primeval  forest 
set  their  mark  upon  their  inhabitants,  not  only  in  physique  but 
in  character.  The  lumberman, — rough,  frank,  independent, 
humorous,  equally  ready  for  a  fight  or  a  frolic,  has  been  por 
trayed  at  full  length  by  Stewart  Edward  White  in  THE  BLAZED 
TRAIL  and  THE  RIVERMAN.  In  the  following  sketch,  taken 
from  his  BLAZED  TRAIL  STORIES,  he  shows  the  lumberman  at 
work  and  at  play. 


THE  RIVERMAN 

BY 

STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE 

I  FIRST  met  him  one  Fourth  of  July  afternoon  in  the  middle 
eighties.  The  sawdust  streets  and  high  board  sidewalks  of 
the  lumber  town  were  filled  to  the  brim  with  people.  The 
permanent  population,  dressed  in  the  stiffness  of  its  Sunday 
best,  escorted  gingham  wives  or  sweethearts ;  a  dozen  outsiders 
like  myself  tried  not  to  be  too  conspicuous  in  a  city  smartness; 
but  the  great  multitude  was  composed  of  the  men  of  the  woods. 
I  sat,  chair-tilted  by  the  hotel,  watching  them  pass.  Their 
heavy  woollen  shirts  crossed  by  the  broad  suspenders,  the  red 
of  their  sashes  or  leather  shine  of  their  belts,  their  short 
kersey  trousers  "  stagged  "  off  to  leave  a  gap  between  the  knee 
and  the  heavily  spiked  "  cork  boots  " — all  these  were  dis 
tinctive  enough  of  their  class,  but  most  interesting  to  me  were 
the  eyes  that  peered  from  beneath  their  little  round  hats  tilted 
rakishly  askew.  They  were  all  subtly  alike,  those  eyes.  Some 
were  black,  some  were  brown,  or  gray,  or  blue,  but  all  were 
steady  and  unabashed,  all  looked  straight  at  you  with  a  strange 
humorous  blending  of  aggression  and  respect  for  your  own 
business,  and  all  without  exception  wrinkled  at  the  corners  with 
a  suggestion  of  dry  humor.  In  my  half-conscious  scrutiny  I 
probably  stared  harder  than  I  knew,  for  all  at  once  a  laughing 
pair  of  blue  eyes  suddenly  met  mine  full,  and  an  ironical  voice 
drawled, 

"  Say,  bub,  you  look  as  interested  as  a  man  killing  snakes. 
Am  I  your  long-lost  friend?  " 

The  tone  of  the  voice  matched  accurately  the  attitude  of  the 

173 


174  AMERICANS  ALL 

man,  and  that  was  quite  non-committal.  He  stood  cheerfully 
ready  to  meet  the  emergency.  If  I  sought  trouble,  it  was  here 
to  my  hand;  or  if  I  needed  help  he  was  willing  to  offer  it. 

"  I  guess  you  are,"  I  replied,  "  if  you  can  tell  me  what  all 
this  outfit's  headed  for." 

He  thrust  back  his  hat  and  ran  his  hand  through  a  mop  of 
closely  cropped  light  curls. 

"  Birling  match,"  he  explained  briefly.    "  Come  on." 

I  joined  him,  and  together  we  followed  the  crowd  to  the 
river,  where  we  roosted  like  cormorants  on  adjacent  piles  over 
looking  a  patch  of  clear  water  among  filled  booms. 

"  Drive  just  over,"  my  new  friend  informed  me.  "  Rear 
come  down  last  night.  Fourther  July  celebration.  This  little 
town  will  scratch  fer  th'  tall  timber  along  about  midnight  when 
the  boys  goes  in  to  take  her  apart." 

A  half-dozen  men  with  peavies  rolled  a  white-pine  log 
of  about  a  foot  and  a  half  in  diameter  into  the  clear  water, 
where  it  lay  rocking  back  and  forth,  three  or  four  feet  from  the 
boom  piles.  Suddenly  a  man  ran  the  length  of  the  boom, 
leaped  easily  into  the  air,  and  landed  with  both  feet  square 
on  one  end  of  the  floating  log.  That  end  disappeared  in  an 
ankle-deep  swirl  of  white  foam,  the  other  rose  suddenly,  the 
whole  timber,  projected  forward  by  the  shock,  drove  headlong 
to  the  middle  of  the  little  pond.  And  the  man,  his  arms  folded, 
his  knees  just  bent  in  the  graceful  nervous  attitude  of  the 
circus-rider,  stood  upright  like  a  statue  of  bronze. 

A  roar  approved  this  feat. 

"  That's  Dickey  Darrell,"  said  my  informant,  "  Roaring 
Dick.  He's  hell  and  repeat.  Watch  him." 

The  man  on  the  log  was  small,  with  clean  beautiful  haunches 
and  shoulders,  but  with  hanging  baboon  arms.  Perhaps  his 
most  striking  feature  was  a  mop  of  reddish-brown  hair  that 
overshadowed  a  little  triangular  white  face  accented  by  two 
reddish-brown  quadrilaterals  that  served  as  eyebrows  and  a 
pair  of  inscrutable  chipmunk  eyes. 


THE  RIVERMAN  175 

For  a  moment  he  poised  erect  in  the  great  calm  of  the 
public  performer.  Then  slowly  he  began  to  revolve  the  log 
under  his  feet.  The  lofty  gaze,  the  folded  arms,  the  straight 
supple  waist  budged  not  by  a  hair's  breadth;  only  the  feet 
stepped  forward,  at  first  deliberately,  then  faster  and  faster, 
until  the  rolling  log  threw  a  blue  spray  a  foot  into  the  air. 
Then  suddenly  slap!  slap!  the  heavy  caulks  stamped  a  reversal. 
The  log  came  instantaneously  to  rest,  quivering  exactly  like 
some  animal  that  had  been  spurred  through  its  paces. 

"  Magnificent!  "  I  cried. 

"  Hell,  that's  nothing!  "  my  companion  repressed  me,  "  any 
body  can  birl  a  log.  Watch  this." 

Roaring  Dick  for  the  first  time  unfolded  his  arms.  With 
some  appearance  of  caution  he  balanced  his  unstable  footing 
into  absolute  immobility.  Then  he  turned  a  somersault. 

This  was  the  real  thing.  My  friend  uttered  a  wild  yell  of 
applause  which  was  lost  in  a  general  roar. 

A  long  pike-pole  shot  out,  bit  the  end  of  the  timber,  and 
towed  it  to  the  boom  pile.  Another  man  stepped  on  the  log 
with  Darrell.  They  stood  facing  each  other,  bent-kneed, 
alert.  Suddenly  with  one  accord  they  commenced  to  birl  the 
log  from  left  to  right.  The  pace  grew  hot.  Like  squirrels 
treading  a  cage  their  feet  twinkled.  Then  it  became  apparent 
that  Darrell's  opponent  was  gradually  being  forced  from  the  top 
of  the  log.  He  could  not  keep  up.  Little  by  little,  still 
moving  desperately,  he  dropped  back  to  the  slant,  then  at 
last  to  the  edge,  and  so  off  into  the  river  with  a  mighty 
splash. 

"  Clean  birled!  "  commented  my  friend. 

One  after  another  a  half-dozen  rivermen  tackled  the  im 
perturbable  Dick,  but  none  of  them  possessed  the  agility  to 
stay  on  top  in  the  pace  he  set  them.  One  boy  of  eighteen 
seemed  for  a  moment  to  hold  his  own,  and  managed  at  least  to 
keep  out  of  the  water  even  when  Darrell  had  apparently 
reached  his  maximum  speed.  But  that  expert  merely  threw  his 


176  AMERICANS  ALL 

entire  weight  into  two  reversing  stamps  of  his  feet,  and  the 
young  fellow  dove  forward  as  abruptly  as  though  he  had  been 
shied  over  a  horse's  head. 

The  crowd  was  by  now  getting  uproarious  and  impatient  of 
volunteer  effort  to  humble  Darrell's  challenge.  It  wanted  the 
best,  and  at  once.  It  began,  with  increasing  insistence,  to  shout 
a  name. 

"Jimmy  Powers!  "  it  vociferated,  "Jimmy  Powers!  " 

And  then  by  shamefaced  bashfulness,  by  profane  protest, 
by  muttered  and  comprehensive  curses  I  knew  that  my  com 
panion  on  the  other  pile  was  indicated. 

A  dozen  men  near  at  hand  began  to  shout.  "  Here  he  is !  " 
they  cried.  "  Come  on,  Jimmy."  "  Don't  be  a  high  banker." 
"  Hang  his  hide  on  the  fence." 

Jimmy,  still  red  and  swearing,  suffered  himself  to  be  pulled 
from  his  elevation  and  disappeared  in  the  throng.  A  moment 
later  I  caught  his  head  and  shoulders  pushing  toward  the  boom 
piles,  and  so  in  a  moment  he  stepped  warily  aboard  to  face  his 
antagonist. 

This  was  evidently  no  question  to  be  determined  by  the 
simplicity  of  force  or  the  simplicity  of  a  child's  trick.  The  two 
men  stood  half-crouched,  face  to  face,  watching  each  other  nar 
rowly,  but  making  no  move.  To  me  they  seemed  like  two 
wrestlers  sparring  for  an  opening.  Slowly  the  log  revolved  one 
way;  then  slowly  the  other.  It  was  a  mere  courtesy  of  salute. 
All  at  once  Dick  birled  three  rapid  strokes  from  left  to  right  as 
though  about  to  roll  the  log,  leaped  into  the  air  and  landed 
square  with  both  feet  on  the  other  slant  of  the  timber.  Jimmy 
Powers  felt  the  jar,  and  acknowledged  it  by  a  spasmodic  jerk 
with  which  he  counterbalanced  Darrell's  weight.  But  he  was 
not  thrown. 

As  though  this  daring  and  hazardous  manoeuvre  had  opened 
the  combat,  both  men  sprang  to  life.  Sometimes  the  log  rolled 
one  way,  sometimes  the  other,  sometimes  it  jerked  from  side  to 
side  like  a  crazy  thing,  but  always  with  the  rapidity  of  light, 


THE  RIVERMAN  177 

always  in  a  smother  of  spray  and  foam.  The  decided  spat, 
spat,  spat  of  the  reversing  blows  from  the  caulked  boots 
sounded  like  picket  firing.  I  could  not  make  out  the  different 
leads,  feints,  parries,  and  counters  of  this  strange  method  of 
boxing,  nor  could  I  distinguish  to  whose  initiative  the  various 
evolutions  of  that  log  could  be  ascribed.  But  I  retain  still 
a  vivid  mental  picture  of  two  men  nearly  motionless  above  the 
waist,  nearly  vibrant  below  it,  dominating  the  insane  gyrations 
of  a  stick  of  pine. 

The  crowd  was  appreciative  and  partisan — for  Jimmy 
Powers.  It  howled  wildly,  and  rose  thereby  to  even  higher 
excitement.  Then  it  forgot  its  manners  utterly  and  groaned 
when  it  made  out  that  a  sudden  splash  represented  its  favorite, 
while  the  indomitable  Darrell  still  trod  the  quarter-deck  as 
champion  birler  for  the  year. 

I  must  confess  I  was  as  sorry  as  anybody.  I  climbed  down 
from  my  cormorant  roost,  and  picked  my  way  between  the 
alleys  of  aromatic  piled  lumber  in  order  to  avoid  the  press, 
and  cursed  the  little  gods  heartily  for  undue  partiality  in  the 
wrong  direction.  In  this  manner  I  happened  on  Jimmy  Powers 
himself  seated  dripping  on  a  board  and  examining  his  bare 
foot. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  I  behind  him.    «  How  did  he  do  it?  " 

He  whirled,  and  I  could  see  that  his  laughing  boyish  face 
had  become  suddenly  grim  and  stern,  and  that  his  eyes  were 
shot  with  blood. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?  "  he  growled  disparagingly.  "  Well, 
that's  how  he  did  it." 

He  held  out  his  foot.  Across  the  instep  and  at  the  base 
of  the  toes  ran  two  rows  of  tiny  round  punctures  from  which 
the  blood  was  oozing.  I  looked  very  inquiring. 

"  He  corked  me!  "  Jimmy  Powers  explained.  "  Jammed  his 

spikes  into  me!  Stepped  on  my  foot  and  tripped  me,  the " 

Jimmy  Powers  certainly  could  swear. 

"  Why  didn't  you  make  a  kick?  "  I  cried. 


1 78  AMERICANS  ALL 

"  That  ain't  how  I  do  it,"  he  muttered,  pulling  on  his  heavy 
woollen  sock. 

"  But  no,"  I  insisted,  my  indignation  mounting.  "  It's  an 
outrage!  That  crowd  was  with  you.  All  you  had  to  do  was  to 
say  something " 

He  cut  me  short.  "  And  give  myself  away  as  a  damn  fool — 
sure  Mike.  I  ought  to  know  Dickey  Darrell  by  this  time,  and 
I  ought  to  be  big  enough  to  take  care  of  myself."  He  stamped 
his  foot  into  his  driver's  shoe  and  took  me  by  the  arm,  his 
good  humor  apparently  restored.  "  No,  don't  lose  any  hair, 
bub;  I'll  get  even  with  Roaring  Dick." 

That  night,  having  by  the  advice  of  the  proprietor  moved  my 
bureau  and  trunk  against  the  bedroom  door,  I  lay  wide  awake 
listening  to  the  taking  of  the  town  apart.  At  each  especially 
vicious  crash  I  wondered  if  that  might  be  Jimmy  Powers  get 
ting  even  with  Roaring  Dick. 

The  following  year,  but  earlier  in  the  season,  I  again  visited 
my  little  lumber  town.  In  striking  contrast  to  the  life  of  that 
other  midsummer  day  were  the  deserted  streets.  The  land 
lord  knew  me,  and  after  I  had  washed  and  eaten  approached 
me  with  a  suggestion. 

"You  got  all  day  in  front  of  you,"  said  he;  "why  don't 
you  take  a  horse  and  buggy  and  make  a  visit  to  the  big  jam? 
Everybody's  up  there  more  or  less." 

In  response  to  my  inquiry,  he  replied: 

"  They've  jammed  at  the  upper  bend,  jammed  bad.  The 
crew's  been  picking  at  her  for  near  a  week  now,  and  last  night 
Darrell  was  down  to  see  about  some  more  dynamite.  It's 
worth  seein'.  The  breast  of  her  is  near  thirty  feet  high,  and 
lots  of  water  in  the  river." 

"  Darrell?  "  said  I,  catching  at  the  name. 

"  Yes.  He's  rear  boss  this  year.  Do  you  think  you'd  like 
to  take  a  look  at  her?  " 

"  I  think  I  should,"  I  assented. 

The  horse  and  I  jogged  slowly  along  a  deep  sand  road, 


THE  RIVERMAN  179 

through  wastes  of  pine  stumps  and  belts  of  hardwood  beau 
tiful  with  the  early  spring,  until  finally  we  arrived  at  a  clear 
ing  in  which  stood  two  huge  tents,  a  mammoth  kettle  slung 
over  a  fire  of  logs,  and  drying  racks  about  the  timbers  of 
another  fire.  A  fat  cook  in  the  inevitable  battered  derby  hat, 
two  bare-armed  cookees,  and  a  chore  "  boy  "  of  seventy-odd 
summers  were  the  only  human  beings  in  sight.  One  of  the 
cookees  agreed  to  keep  an  eye  on  my  horse.  I  picked  my  way 
down  a  well-worn  trail  toward  the  regular  clank,  clank,  click 
of  the  pea  vies. 

I  emerged  finally  to  a  plateau  elevated  some  fifty  or  sixty 
feet  above  the  river.  A  half-dozen  spectators  were  already 
gathered.  Among  them  I  could  not  but  notice  a  tall,  spare, 
broad-shouldered  young  fellow  dressed  in  a  quiet  business  suit, 
somewhat  wrinkled,  whose  square,  strong,  clean-cut  face  and 
muscular  hands  were  tanned  by  the  weather  to  a  dark  umber- 
brown.  In  another  moment  I  looked  down  on  the  jam. 

The  breast,  as  my  landlord  had  told  me,  rose  sheer  from 
the  water  to  the  height  of  at  least  twenty-five  feet,  bristling 
and  formidable.  Back  of  it  pressed  the  volume  of  logs  packed 
closely  in  an  apparently  inextricable  tangle  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach.  A  man  near  informed  me  that  the  tail  was  a 
good  three  miles  up  stream.  From  beneath  this  wonderful 
chevaux  de  frise  foamed  the  current  of  the  river,  irresistible 
to  any  force  less  mighty  than  the  statics  of  such  a  mass. 

A  crew  of  forty  or  fifty  men  were  at  work.  They  clamped 
their  peavies  to  the  reluctant  timbers,  heaved,  pushed,  slid,  and 
rolled  them  one  by  one  into  the  current,  where  they  were 
caught  and  borne  away.  They  had  been  doing  this  for  a 
week.  As  yet  their  efforts  had  made  but  slight  impression  on 
the  bulk  of  the  jam,  but  some  time,  with  patience,  they  would 
reach  the  key-logs.  Then  the  tangle  would  melt  like  sugar  in 
the  freshet,  and  these  imperturbable  workers  would  have  to 
escape  suddenly  over  the  plunging  logs  to  shore. 

My  eye  ranged  over  the  men,  and  finally  rested  on  Dickey 


i8o  AMERICANS  ALL 

Darrell.  He  was  standing  on  the  slanting  end  of  an  up 
heaved  log  dominating  the  scene.  His  little  triangular  face 
with  the  accents  of  the  quadrilateral  eyebrows  was  pale  with 
the  blaze  of  his  energy,  and  his  chipmunk  eyes  seemed  to  flame 
with  a  dynamic  vehemence  that  caused  those  on  whom  they 
fell  to  jump  as  though  they  had  been  touched  with  a  hot  poker. 
I  had  heard  more  of  Dickey  Darrell  since  my  last  visit,  and 
was  glad  of  the  chance  to  observe  Morrison  &  Daly's  best 
"  driver  "  at  work. 

The  jam  seemed  on  the  very  edge  of  breaking.  After 
half  an  hour's  strained  expectation  it  seemed  still  on  the  very 
edge  of  breaking.  So  I  sat  down  on  a  stump.  Then  for  the 
first  time  I  noticed  another  acquaintance,  handling  his  peavie 
near  the  very  person  of  the  rear  boss. 

"Hullo,"  said  I  to  myself,  "that's  funny.  I  wonder  if 
Jimmy  Powers  got  even;  and  if  so,  why  he  is  working  so 
amicably  and  so  near  Roaring  Dick." 

At  noon  the  men  came  ashore  for  dinner.  I  paid  a  quarter 
into  the  cook's  private  exchequer  and  so  was  fed.  After  the 
meal  I  approached  my  acquaintance  of  the  year  before. 

"  Hello,  Powers,"  I  greeted  him,  "  I  suppose  you  don't  re 
member  me?  " 

"  Sure,"  he  responded  heartily.  "  Ain't  you  a  little  early 
this  year?  " 

"  No,"  I  disclaimed,  "  this  is  a  better  sight  than  a  birling 
match." 

I  offered  him  a  cigar,  which  he  immediately  substituted  for 
his  corn-cob  pipe.  We  sat  at  the  root  of  a  tree. 

"  It'll  be  a  great  sight  when  that  jam  pulls,"  said  I. 

"  You  bet,"  he  replied,  "  but  she's  a  teaser.  Even  old  Tim 
Shearer  would  have  a  picnic  to  make  out  just  where  the  key- 
logs  are.  We've  started  her  three  times,  but  she's  plugged 
tight  every  trip.  Likely  to  pull  almost  any  time." 

We  discussed  various  topics.    Finally  I  ventured: 

"  I  see  your  old  friend  Darrell  is  rear  boss." 


THE  RIVERMAN  181 

"  Yes,"  said  Jimmy  Powers,  dryly. 

"  By  the  way,  did  you  fellows  ever  square  up  on  that  birling 
match?  " 

"  No,"  said  Jimmy  Powers;  then  after  an  instant,  "Not 
yet." 

I  glanced  at  him  to  recognize  the  square  set  to  the  jaw 
that  had  impressed  me  so  formidably  the  year  before.  And 
again  his  face  relaxed  almost  quizzically  as  he  caught  sight  of 
mine. 

"  Bub,"  said  he,  getting  to  his  feet,  "  those  little  marks  are 
on  my  foot  yet.  And  just  you  tie  into  one  idea:  Dickey  Dar- 
relPs  got  it  coming."  His  face  darkened  with  a  swift  anger. 
"  God  damn  his  soul!  "  he  said,  deliberately.  It  was  no  mere 
profanity.  It  was  an  imprecation,  and  in  its  very  deliberation 
I  glimpsed  the  flare  of  an  undying  hate. 

About  three  o'clock  that  afternoon  Jimmy's  prediction  was 
fulfilled.  Without  the  slightest  warning  the  jam  "pulled." 
Usually  certain  premonitory  cracks,  certain  sinkings  down, 
groanings  forward,  grumblings,  shruggings,  and  sullen,  reluc 
tant  shiftings  of  the  logs  give  opportunity  for  the  men  to 
assure  their  safety.  This  jam,  after  inexplicably  hanging  fire 
for  a  week,  as  inexplicably  started  like  a  sprinter  almost  into 
its  full  gait.  The  first  few  tiers  toppled  smash  into  the  cur 
rent,  raising  a  waterspout  like  that  made  by  a  dynamite  ex 
plosion;  the  mass  behind  plunged  forward  blindly,  rising  and 
falling  as  the  integral  logs  were  up-ended,  turned  over,  thrust 
one  side,  or  forced  bodily  into  the  air  by  the  mighty  power 
playing  jack-straws  with  them. 

The  rivermen,  though  caught  unaware,  reached  either  bank. 
They  held  their  peavies  across  their  bodies  as  balancing-poles, 
and  zig-zagged  ashore  with  a  calmness  and  lack  of  haste  that 
were  in  reality  only  an  indication  of  the  keenness  with  which 
they  fore-estimated  each  chance.  Long  experience  with  the 
ways  of  saw-logs  brought  them  out.  They  knew  the  correla 
tion  of  these  many  forces  just  as  the  expert  billiard-player 


182  AMERICANS  ALL 

knows  instinctively  the  various  angles  of  incident  and  reflec 
tion  between  his  cue-ball  and  its  mark.  Consequently  they 
avoided  the  centers  of  eruption,  paused  on  the  spots  steadied 
for  the  moment,  dodged  moving  logs,  trod  those  not  yet  under 
way,  and  so  arrived  on  solid  ground.  The  jam  itself  started 
with  every  indication  of  meaning  business,  gained  momentum 
for  a  hundred  feet,  and  then  plugged  to  a  standstill.  The 
"  break  "  was  abortive. 

Now  we  all  had  leisure  to  notice  two  things.  First,  the 
movement  had  not  been  of  the  whole  jam,  as  we  had  at  first 
supposed,  but  only  of  a  block  or  section  of  it  twenty  rods 
or  so  in  extent.  Thus  between  the  part  that  had  moved  and 
the  greater  bulk  that  had  not  stirred  lay  a  hundred  feet  of 
open  water  in  which  floated  a  number  of  loose  logs.  The  sec 
ond  fact  was,  that  Dickey  Darrell  had  fallen  into  that  open 
stretch  of  water  and  was  in  the  act  of  swimming  toward  one 
of  the  floating  logs.  That  much  we  were  given  time  to  appre 
ciate  thoroughly.  Then  the  other  section  of  the  jam  rumbled 
and  began  to  break.  Roaring  Dick  was  caught  between  two 
gigantic  millstones  moving  to  crush  him  out  of  sight. 

An  active  figure  darted  down  the  tail  of  the  first  section, 
out  over  the  floating  logs,  seized  Darrell  by  the  coat-collar, 
and  so  burdened  began  desperately  to  scale  the  very  face  of  the 
breaking  jam. 

Never  was  a  more  magnificent  rescue.  The  logs  were  rolling, 
falling,  diving  against  the  laden  man.  He  climbed  as  over 
a  treadmill,  a  treadmill  whose  speed  was  constantly  increasing. 
And  when  he  finally  gained  the  top,  it  was  as  the  gap  closed 
splintering  beneath  him  and  the  man  he  had  saved. 

It  is  not  in  the  woodsman  to  be  demonstrative  at  any  time, 
but  here  was  work  demanding  attention.  Without  a  pause  for 
breath  or  congratulation  they  turned  to  the  necessity  of  the 
moment.  The  jam,  the  whole  jam,  was  moving  at  last.  Jimmy 
Powers  ran  ashore  for  his  peavie.  Roaring  Dick,  like  a  demon 
incarnate,  threw  himself  into  the  work.  Forty  men  attacked 


THE  RI  VERM  AN  183 

the  jam  in  a  dozen  places,  encouraging  the  movement,  twisting 
aside  the  timbers  that  threatened  to  lock  anew,  directing 
pigmy-like  the  titanic  forces  into  the  channel  of  their  effi 
ciency.  Roaring  like  wild  cattle  the  logs  swept  by,  at  first 
slowly,  then  with  the  railroad  rush  of  the  curbed  freshet.  Men 
were  everywhere,  taking  chances,  like  cowboys  before  the 
stampeded  herd.  And  so,  out  of  sight  around  the  lower  bend 
swept  the  front  of  the  jam  in  a  swirl  of  glory,  the  rivermen 
riding  the  great  boom  back  of  the  creature  they  subdued,  until 
at  last,  with  the  slackening  current,  the  logs  floated  by  free,  can 
noning  with  hollow  sound  one  against  the  other.  A  half-dozen 
watchers,  leaning  statuesquely  on  the  shafts  of  their  peavies, 
watched  the  ordered  ranks  pass  by. 

One  by  one  the  spectators  departed.  At  last  only  myself 
and  the  brown- faced  young  man  remained.  He  sat  on  a  stump, 
staring  with  sightless  eyes  into  vacancy.  I  did  not  disturb  his 
thoughts. 

The  sun  dipped.  A  cool  breeze  of  evening  sucked  up  the 
river.  Over  near  the  cook-camp  a  big  fire  commenced  to 
crackle  by  the  drying  frames.  At  dusk  the  rivermen  straggled 
in  from  the  down-river  trail. 

The  brown- faced  young  man  arose  and  went  to  meet  them. 
I  saw  him  return  in  close  conversation  with  Jimmy  Powers. 
Before  they  reached  us  he  had  turned  away  with  a  gesture  of 
farewell. 

Jimmy  Powers  stood  looking  after  him  long  after  his  form 
had  disappeared,  and  indeed  even  after  the  sound  of  his  wheels 
had  died  toward  town.  As  I  approached,  the  riverman  turned 
to  me  a  face  from  which  the  reckless,  contained  self-reliance 
of  the  woods-worker  had  faded.  It  was  wide-eyed  with  an  al 
most  awe-stricken  wonder  and  adoration. 

"  DC  you  know  who  that  is?  "  he  asked  me  in  a  hushed 
voice  "  That's  Thorpe,  Harry  Thorpe.  And  do  you  know 
what  he  said  to  me  just  now,  me?  He  told  me  he  wanted  me 
to  work  in  Camp  One  next  winter,  Thorpe's  One.  And  he 


184  AMERICANS  ALL 

told  me  I  was  the  first  man  he  ever  hired  straight  into 
One." 

His  breath  caught  with  something  like  a  sob. 

I  had  heard  of  the  man  and  of  his  methods.  I  knew  he  had 
made  it  a  practice  of  recruiting  for  his  prize  camp  only  from  the 
employees  of  his  other  camps,  that,  as  Jimmy  said,  he  never 
"  hired  straight  into  One."  I  had  heard,  too,  of  his  reputation 
among  his  own  and  other  woodsmen.  But  this  was  the  first 
time  I  had  ever  come  into  personal  contact  with  his  influence. 
It  impressed  me  the  more  in  that  I  had  come  to  know  Jimmy 
Powers  and  his  kind. 

"  You  deserve  it,  every  bit,"  said  I.  "  I'm  not  going  to  call 
you  a  hero,  because  that  would  make  you  tired.  What  you  did 
this  afternoon  showed  nerve.  It  was  a  brave  act.  But  it  was  a 
better  act  because  your  rescued  your  enemy,  because  you  forgot 
everything  but  your  common  humanity  when  danger " 

I  broke  off.  Jimmy  was  again  looking  at  me  with  his 
ironically  quizzical  grin. 

"  Bub,"  said  he,  "  if  you're  going  to  hang  any  stars  of 
Bethlehem  on  my  Christmas  tree,  just  call  a  halt  right  here.  I 
didn't  rescue  that  scalawag  because  I  had  any  Christian  senti 
ments,  nary  bit.  I  was  just  naturally  savin'  him  for  the 
birling  match  next  Fourther  July." 


STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE 

There  are  some  authors  whom  we  think  of  as  bookmen; 
there  are  others  whom  we  think  of  as  men  first,  and  as  writers 
secondarily.  Lowell,  for  example  was  a  bookman;  Roosevelt 
was  a  man  of  action  who  wrote  books.  Stewart  Edward  White, 
far  more  of  a  literary  artist  than  Roosevelt,  gives  like  him 
the  impression  of  a  man  who  has  done  things,  of  one  who  lives 
a  full  life,  and  produces  books  as  a  sort  of  by-product:  very 
valuable,  but  not  the  chief  end  of  existence. 

Mr.  White  was  born  in  a  small  town  near  Grand  Rapids, 
Michigan,  March  12,  1873.  His  parents  had  their  own  ideas 
about  bringing  up  children.  Instead  of  sending  him  to  school 
they  sent  for  a  teacher  to  instruct  him,  they  encouraged  him  to 
read,  they  took  him  traveling,  not  only  to  cities  but  to  the  silent 
places,  the  great  forests,  and  to  the  lumber  camps.  He  spent 
four  years  in  California,  and  became  a  good  horseman,  making 
many  trips  in  the  saddle  to  the  picturesque  old  ranches.  When 
finally,  he  entered  high  school,  at  sixteen,  he  went  in  with  boys 
of  his  own  age,  and  graduated  at  eighteen,  president  of  his  class. 
And  what  he  was  most  proud  of  was  that  he  won  and  still 
holds,  the  five-mile  running  record  of  his  school.  He  was  in 
tensely  interested  in  birds  at  this  time,  and  spent  all  his  spare 
hours  in  the  woods,  studying  bird-life.  The  result  was  a  series 
of  articles  on  birds,  published  in  various  scientific  journals, — 
papers  whose  columns  are  not  usually  open  to  high  school  con 
tributors. 

Then  came  a  college  course  at  the  University  of  Michigan, 
with  vacations  spent  in  cruising  about  the  Great  Lakes  in  a 
twenty-eight-foot  cutter  sloop.  After  graduation  he  worked  for 
a  time  in  a  packing  house,  then  hearing  of  the  discovery  of 

185 


1 86  AMERICANS  ALL 

gold  in  the  Black  Hills,  he  set  off  with  the  other  gold-diggers. 
He  did  not  find  a  mine,  but  the  experience  gave  him  a  back 
ground  for  two  later  novels,  The  Claim  Jumpers,  and  The 
Westerners. 

He  went  east  for  a  year  of  graduate  study  at  Columbia 
University.  Like  many  other  students,  he  found  a  friend  in 
Professor  Brander  Matthews,  who  encouraged  him  to  write  of 
some  of  his  western  experiences.  He  sold  a  few  short  stories 
to  magazines,  and  his  first  novel,  The  Claim  Jumpers  was  ac 
cepted  by  Appleton's.  The  Westerners,  his  next  book,  brought 
him  $500  for  the  serial  rights,  and  with  its  publication  he  defi 
nitely  determined  upon  making  authorship  his  calling.  But  it 
was  not  authorship  in  a  study.  The  Blazed  Trail  was  written  in 
a  lumber  camp  in  midwinter.  He  got  up  at  four  o'clock,  wrote 
until  eight,  then  put  on  his  snowshoes  and  went  out  for  a  day's 
work.  When  the  story  was  finished  he  gave  it  to  the  foreman 
of  the  camp  to  read.  The  man  began  it  after  supper,  and  when 
White  got  up  next  morning  at  four,  he  found  him  still  reading, 
so  he  felt  that  the  book  would  succeed. 

Another  year  he  made  a  trip  to  the  Hudson  Bay  country, 
and  on  his  return  wrote  Conjurer's  House.  This  was  dra 
matized  by  George  Broadhurst,  and  was  very  successful  on  the 
stage.  With  Thomas  Fogarty,  the  artist,  he  made  a  long  canoe 
trip,  and  the  resulting  book,  The  Forest,  was  illustrated  by 
Mr.  Fogarty.  A  camping  trip  in  the  Sierra  Mountains  of  Cali 
fornia  was  followed  by  the  writing  of  The  Mountains.  His 
next  book,  The  Mystery,  was  written  jointly  by  Mr.  White  and 
Samuel  Hopkins  Adams.  When  it  was  finished  they  not  only 
divided  the  proceeds  but  divided  the  characters  for  future 
stories,  White  taking  Handy  Solomon,  whom  he  used  again  in 
Arizona  Nights,  and  Darrow,  who  appeared  in  The  Sign  at  Six. 

Then  without  warning,  Mr.  White  went  to  Africa.  His 
explanation  was  simple: 

I  went  because  I  wanted  to.  About  once  in  so  often  the  wheels 
get  rusty  and  I  have  to  get  up  and  do  something  real  or  else  blow 


STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE  187 

up.  Africa  seemed  to  me  a  pretty  real  thing.  Let  me  add  that  I 
did  not  go  for  material.  I  never  go  anywhere  for  material ;  if  I  did 
I  should  not  get  it.  That  attitude  of  mine  would  give  me  merely 
externals,  which  are  not  worth  writing  about.  I  go  places  merely 
because  for  one  reason  or  another  they  attract  me.  Then  if  it  hap 
pens  that  I  get  close  enough  to  the  life,  I  may  later  find  that  I  have 
something  to  write  about.  A  man  rarely  writes  anything  convincing 
unless  he  has  lived  the  life;  not  with  his  critical  faculty  alert,  but 
whole-heartedly  and  because,  for  the  time  being,  it  is  his  life. 

Naturally  he  found  that  he  had  something  to  write  about  on 
his  return.  The  Land  of  Footprints,  African  Camp  Fires,  Simba, 
and  The  Leopard  Woman  were  books  that  grew  out  of  his  Afri 
can  trip.  Mr.  White  next  planned  to  write  a  series  of  three  novels 
dealing  with  the  romantic  history  of  the  state  of  California. 
The  first  of  these  books,  Gold,  describes  the  mad  rush  of  the 
Forty-Niners  on  the  first  discovery  of  gold  in  California.  The 
Gray  Dawn,  the  second  of  the  series,  tells  of  the  days  of  the 
Vigilantes,  when  the  wild  life  of  the  mining  camps  slowly 
settled  down  to  law  and  order.  The  coming  of  the  World  War 
was  a  fresh  challenge  to  his  adventurous  spirit,  and  he  saw  serv 
ice  in  France  as  a  major  in  the  U.  S.  Field  Artillery. 

From  this  sketch  it  is  apparent  that  Mr.  White's  books  have 
all  grown  out  of  his  experience,  in  the  sense  that  the  back 
ground  is  one  that  he  has  known.  This  explains  the  strong 
feeling  of  reality  that  we  experience  as  we  read  his  stories. 


NEW  ENGLAND  GRANITE 


From  the  day  the  Pilgrims  landed  on  a  rockbound  coast,  the 
name  New  Englander  has  suggested  certain  traits  of  character. 
It  connotes  a  restraint  of  feeling  which  more  impulsive  persons 
may  mistake  for  absence  of  feeling;  a  reserve  carried  almost 
to  the  point  of  coldness;  a  quiet  dignity  which  to  a  breezy 
Westerner  seems  like  " stand-offishness"  But  those  who  come 
to  know  New  England  people  well,  find  that  beneath  the  flint 
is  fire.  Dorothy  Canfield  suggests  the  theme  of  her  story  in 
the  title—" Flint  and  Fire" 


FLINT  AND  FIRE 

BY 

DOROTHY  CANFIELD 

MY  husband's  cousin  had  come  up  from  the  city,  slightly 
more  fagged  and  sardonic  than  usual,  and  as  he  stretched  him 
self  out  in  the  big  porch-chair  he  was  even  more  caustic  than 
was  his  wont  about  the  bareness  and  emotional  sterility  of  the 
lives  of  our  country  people. 

"  Perhaps  they  had,  a  couple  of  centuries  ago,  when  the 
Puritan  hallucination  was  still  strong,  a  certain  fierce  savor 
of  religious  intolerance;  but  now  that  that  has  died  out,  and 
no  material  prosperity  has  come  to  let  them  share  in  the 
larger  life  of  their  century,  there  is  a  flatness,  a  mean  absence 
of  warmth  or  color,  a  deadness  to  all  emotions  but  the  pettiest 
sorts " 

I  pushed  the  pitcher  nearer  him,  clinking  the  ice  invitingly, 
and  directed  his  attention  to  our  iris-bed  as  a  more  cheerful 
object  of  contemplation  than  the  degeneracy  of  the  inhabi 
tants  of  Vermont.  The  flowers  burned  on  their  tall  stalks 
like  yellow  tongues  of  flame.  The  strong,  sword-like  green 
leaves  thrust  themselves  boldly  up  into  the  spring  air  like  a 
challenge.  The  plants  vibrated  with  vigorous  life. 

In  the  field  beyond  them,  as  vigorous  as  they,  strode  Adoni- 
ram  Purdon  behind  his  team,  the  reins  tied  together  behind  his 
muscular  neck,  his  hands  grasping  the  plow  with  the  masterful 
sureness  of  the  successful  practitioner  of  an  art.  The  hot, 
sweet  spring  sunshine  shone  down  on  'Niram's  head  with  its 
thick  crest  of  brown  hair,  the  ineffable  odor  of  newly  turned 
earth  steamed  up  about  him  like  incense,  the  mountain 
stream  beyond  him  leaped  and  shouted.  His  powerful  body 
answered  every  call  made  on  it  with  the  precision  of  a  splen- 

191 


192  AMERICANS  ALL 

did  machine.  But  there  was  no  elation  in  the  grimly  set  face  as 
'Niram  wrenched  the  plow  around  a  big  stone,  or  as,  in  a 
more  favorable  furrow,  the  gleaming  share  sped  steadily  along 
before  the  plowman,  turning  over  a  long,  unbroken  brown  rib 
bon  of  earth. 

My  cousin-in-law  waved  a  nervous  hand  toward  the  sternly 
silent  figure  as  it  stepped  doggedly  behind  the  straining  team, 
the  head  bent  forward,  the  eyes  fixed  on  the  horses'  heels. 

"  There!  "  he  said.  "  There  is  an  example  of  what  I  mean. 
Is  there  another  race  on  earth  which  could  produce  a  man 
in  such  a  situation  who  would  not  on  such  a  day  sing,  or 
whistle,  or  at  least  hold  up  his  head  and  look  at  all  the  earthly 
glories  about  him?  " 

I  was  silent,  but  not  for  lack  of  material  for  speech. 
'Niram's  reasons  for  austere  self-control  were  not  such  as  I 
cared  to  discuss  with  a  man  of  my  cousin's  mental  attitude. 
As  we  sat  looking  at  him  the  noon  whistle  from  the  village 
blew  and  the  wise  old  horses  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  furrow. 
'Niram  unharnessed  them,  led  them  to  the  shade  of  a  tree, 
and  put  on  their  nose-bags.  Then  he  turned  and  came  to 
ward  the  house. 

"  Don't  I  seem  to  remember,"  murmured  my  cousin  under 
his  breath,  "  that,  even  though  he  is  a  New-Englander,  he 
has  been  known  to  make  up  errands  to  your  kitchen  to  see 
your  pretty  Ev'leen  Ann?  " 

I  looked  at  him  hard;  but  he  was  only  gazing  down,  rather 
cross-eyed,  on  his  grizzled  mustache,  with  an  obvious  petu 
lant  interest  in  the  increase  of  white  hairs  in  it.  Evidently 
his  had  been  but  a  chance  shot.  'Niram  stepped  up  on  the 
grass  at  the  edge  of  the  porch.  He  was  so  tall  that  he 
overtopped  the  railing  easily,  and,  reaching  a  long  arm  over 
to  where  I  sat,  he  handed  me  a  small  package  done  up  in 
yellowish  tissue-paper.  Without  hat-raisings,  or  good-morn 
ings  or  any  other  of  the  greetings  usual  in  a  more  effusive 
civilization,  he  explained  briefly: 


FLINT  AND  FIRE  193 

"  My  stepmother  wanted  I  should  give  you  this.  She  said 
to  thank  you  for  the  grape-juice."  As  he  spoke  he  looked 
at  me  gravely  out  of  deep-set  blue  eyes,  and  when  he  had  de 
livered  his  message  he  held  his  peace. 

I  expressed  myself  with  the  babbling  volubility  of  one  whose 
manners  have  been  corrupted  by  occasional  sojourns  in  the 
city.  "  Oh,  'Niram!  "  I  cried  protestingly,  as  I  opened  the 
package  and  took  out  an  exquisitely  wrought  old-fashioned 
collar.  "  Oh,  'Niram!  How  could  your  stepmother  give  such 
a  thing  away?  Why,  it  must  be  one  of  her  precious  old  relics. 
I  don't  want  her  to  give  me  something  every  time  I  do  some 
little  thing  for  her.  Can't  a  neighbor  send  her  in  a  few  bottles 
of  grape- juice  without  her  thinking  she  must  pay  it  back 
somehow?  It's  not  kind  of  her.  She  has  never  yet  let  me  do 
the  least  thing  for  her  without  repaying  me  with  something 
that  is  worth  ever  so  much  more  than  my  trifling  services." 

When  I  had  finished  my  prattling,  'Niram  repeated,  with 
an  accent  of  finality,  "  She  wanted  I  should  give  it  to  you." 

The  older  man  stirred  in  his  chair.  Without  looking  at 
him  I  knew  that  his  gaze  on  the  young  rustic  was  quizzical 
and  that  he  was  recording  on  the  tablets  of  his  merciless  mem 
ory  the  ungraceful  abruptness  of  the  other's  action  and  manner. 

"  How  is  your  stepmother  feeling  to-day,  'Niram? "  I 
asked. 

"  Worse." 

'Niram  came  to  a  full  stop  with  the  word.  My  cousin 
covered  his  satirical  mouth  with  his  hand. 

"  Can't  the  doctor  do  anything  to  relieve  her?  "  I  asked. 

'Niram  moved  at  last  from  his  Indian-like  immobility.  He 
looked  up  under  the  brim  of  his  felt  hat  at  the  sky-line  of  the 
mountain,  shimmering  iridescent  above  us.  "  He  says  maybe 
'lectricity  would  help  her  some.  I'm  goin'  to  git  her  the  bat 
teries  and  things  soon's  I  git  the  rubber  bandages  paid  for." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  My  cousin  stood  up,  yawning, 
and  sauntered  away  toward  the  door.  "  Shall  I  send  Ev'leen 


194  AMERICANS  ALL 

Ann  out  to  get  the  pitcher  and  glasses?  "  he  asked  in  an  accent 
which  he  evidently  thought  very  humorously  significant. 

The  strong  face  under  the  felt  hat  turned  white,  the  jaw 
muscles  set  hard,  but  for  all  this  show  of  strength  there  was 
an  instant  when  the  man's  eyes  looked  out  with  the  sick,  help 
less  revelation  of  pain  they  might  have  had  when  'Niram  was 
a  little  boy  of  ten,  a  third  of  his  present  age,  and  less  than  half 
his  present  stature.  Occasionally  it  is  horrifying  to  see  how 
a  chance  shot  rings  the  bell. 

"No,  no!  Never  mind!  "  I  said  hastily.  "I'll  take  the 
tray  in  when  I  go." 

Without  salutation  or  farewell  'Niram  Purdon  turned  and 
went  back  to  his  work. 

The  porch  was  an  enchanted  place,  walled  around  with  star 
lit  darkness,  visited  by  wisps  of  breezes  shaking  down  from  their 
wings  the  breath  of  lilac  and  syringa,  flowering  wild  grapes, 
and  plowed  fields.  Down  at  the  foot  of  our  sloping  lawn  the 
little  river,  still  swollen  by  the  melted  snow  from  the  mountains, 
plunged  between  its  stony  banks  and  shouted  its  brave  song 
to  the  stars. 

We  three  middle-aged  people — Paul,  his  cousin,  and  I — 
had  disposed  our  uncomely,  useful,  middle-aged  bodies  in  the 
big  wicker  chairs  and  left  them  there  while  our  young  souls 
wandered  abroad  in  the  sweet,  dark  glory  of  the  night.  At 
least  Paul  and  I  were  doing  this,  as  we  sat,  hand  in  hand, 
thinking  of  a  May  night  twenty  years  before.  One  never 
knows  what  Horace  is  thinking  of,  but  apparently  he  was 
not  in  his  usual  captious  vein,  for  after  a  long  pause  he  re 
marked,  "  It  is  a  night  almost  indecorously  inviting  to  the  mak 
ing  of  love." 

My  answer  seemed  grotesquely  out  of  key  with  this,  but  its 
sequence  was  clear  in  my  mind.  I  got  up,  saying:  "  Oh,  that 
reminds  me — I  must  go  and  see  Ev'leen  Ann.  I'd  forgotten 
to  plan  to-morrow's  dinner." 

"  Oh,  everlastingly  Ev'leen  Ann!  "  mocked  Horace  from  his 


FLINT  AND  FIRE  195 

corner.  "  Can't  you  think  of  anything  but  Ev'leen  Ann  and 
her  affairs?  " 

I  felt  my  way  through  the  darkness  of  the  house,  toward 
the  kitchen,  both  doors  of  which  were  tightly  closed.  When 
I  stepped  into  the  hot,  close  room,  smelling  of  food  and  fire, 
I  saw  Ev'leen  Ann  sitting  on  the  straight  kitchen  chair,  the 
yellow  light  of  the  bracket-lamp  bearing  down  on  her  heavy 
braids  and  bringing  out  the  exquisitely  subtle  modeling  of  her 
smooth  young  face.  Her  hands  were  folded  in  her  lap.  She 
was  staring  at  the  blank  wall,  and  the  expression  of  her  eyes 
so  startled  and  shocked  me  that  I  stopped  short  and  would  have 
retreated  if  it  had  not  been  too  late.  She  had  seen  me,  roused 
herself,  and  said  quietly,  as  though  continuing  a  conversation 
interrupted  the  moment  before: 

"I  had  been  thinking  that  there  was  enough  left  of  the 
roast  to  make  hash-balls  for  dinner  " — "  hash-balls  "  is  Ev' 
leen  Ann's  decent  Anglo-Saxon  name  for  croquettes — "and 
maybe  you'd  like  a  rhubarb  pie." 

I  knew  well  enough  she  had  been  thinking  of  no  such  thing, 
but  I  could  as  easily  have  slapped  a  reigning  sovereign  on  the 
back  as  broken  in  on  the  regal  reserve  of  Ev'leen  Ann  in  her 
clean  gingham. 

"Well,  yes,  Ev'leen  Ann,"  I  answered  in  her  own  tone  of 
reasonable  consideration  of  the  matter ;  "  that  would  be  nice, 
and  your  pie-crust  is  so  flaky  that  even  Mr.  Horace  will  have 
to  be  pleased." 

"  Mr.  Horace  "  is  our  title  for  the  sardonic  cousin  whose 
carping  ways  are  half  a  joke,  and  half  a  menace  in  our  family. 

Ev'leen  Ann  could  not  manage  the  smile  which  should  have 
greeted  this  sally.  She  looked  down  soberly  at  the  white-pine 
top  of  the  kitchen  table  and  said,  "  I  guess  there  is  enough 
sparrow-grass  up  in  the  garden  for  a  mess,  too,  if  you'd  like 
that." 

"  That  would  taste  very  good,"  I  agreed,  my  heart  aching 
for  her. 


i96  AMERICANS  ALL 

"  And  creamed  potatoes,"  she  finished  bravely,  thrusting 
my  unspoken  pity  from  her. 

"  You  know  I  like  creamed  potatoes  better  than  any  other 
kind,"  I  concurred. 

There  was  a  silence.  It  seemed  inhuman  to  go  and  leave 
the  stricken  young  thing  to  fight  her  trouble  alone  in  the  ugly 
prison,  her  work-place,  though  I  thought  I  could  guess  why 
Ev'leen  Ann  had  shut  the  doors  so  tightly.  I  hung  near  her, 
searching  my  head  for  something  to  say,  but  she  helped  me 
by  no  casual  remark.  'Niram  is  not  the  only  one  of  our 
people  who  possesses  to  the  full  the  supreme  gift  of  silence. 
Finally  I  mentioned  the  report  of  a  case  of  measles  in  the 
village,  and  Ev'leen  Ann  responded  in  kind  with  the  news  that 
her  Aunt  Emma  had  bought  a  potato-planter.  Ev'leen  Ann 
is  an  orphan,  brought  up  by  a  well-to-do  spinster  aunt,  who 
is  strong-minded  and  runs  her  own  farm.  After  a  time  we 
glided  by  way  of  similar  transitions  to  the  mention  of  his 
name. 

"  'Niram  Purdon  tells  me  his  stepmother  is  no  better,"  I 
said.  "  Isn't  it  too  bad?  "  I  thought  it  well  for  Ev'leen  Ann 
to  be  dragged  out  of  her  black  cave  of  silence  once  in  a  while, 
even  if  it  could  be  done  only  by  force.  As  she  made  no 
answer,  I  went  on.  "  Everybody  who  knows  'Niram  thinks  it 
splendid  of  him  to  do  so  much  for  his  stepmother." 

Ev'leen  Ann  responded  with  a  detached  air,  as  though  speak 
ing  of  a  matter  in  China:  "  Well,  it  ain't  any  more  than  what 
he  should.  She  was  awful  good  to  him  when  he  was  little  and 
his  father  got  so  sick.  I  guess  'Niram  wouldn't  ha'  had  much 
to  eat  if  she  hadn't  ha'  gone  out  sewing  to  earn  it  for  him  and 
Mr.  Purdon."  She  added  firmly,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  No, 
ma'am,  I  don't  guess  it's  any  more  than  what  'Niram  had  ought 
to  do." 

"  But  it's  very  hard  on  a  young  man  to  feel  that  he's  not 
able  to  marry,"  I  continued.  Once  in  a  great  while  we  came 
so  near  the  matter  as  this.  Ev'leen  Ann  made  no  answer.  Her 


FLINT  AND  FIRE  197 

face  took  on  a  pinched  look  of  sickness.  She  set  her  lips  as 
though  she  would  never  speak  again.  But  I  knew  that  a 
criticism  of  'Niram  would  always  rouse  her,  and  said:  "  And 
really,  I  think  'Niram  makes  a  great  mistake  to  act  as  he 
does.  A  wife  would  be  a  help  to  him.  She  could  take  care 
of  Mrs.  Purdon  and  keep  the  house." 

Ev'leen  Ann  rose  to  the  bait,  speaking  quickly  with  some 
heat:  "  I  guess  'Niram  knows  what's  right  for  him  to  do! 
He  can't  afford  to  marry  when  he  can't  even  keep  up  with  the 
doctor's  bills  and  all.  He  keeps  the  house  himself,  nights  and 
mornings,  and  Mrs.  Purdon  is  awful  handy  about  taking  care 
of  herself,  for  all  she's  bedridden.  That's  her  way,  you  know. 
She  can't  bear  to  have  folks  do  for  her.  She'd  die  before  she'd 
let  anybody  do  anything  for  her  that  she  could  anyways  do 
for  herself!  " 

I  sighed  acquiescingly.  Mrs.  Purdon's  fierce  independence 
was  a  rock  on  which  every  attempt  at  sympathy  or  help  shat 
tered  itself  to  atoms.  There  seemed  to  be  no  other  emotion 
left  in  her  poor  old  work-worn  shell  of  a  body.  As  I  looked 
at  Ev'leen  Ann  it  seemed  rather  a  hateful  characteristic,  and 
I  remarked,  "  It  seems  to  me  it's  asking  a  good  deal  of  'Niram 
to  spoil  his  life  in  order  that  his  stepmother  can  go  on  pretend 
ing  she's  independent." 

Ev'leen  Ann  explained  hastily:  "  Oh,  'Niram  doesn't  tell 
her  anything  about — She  doesn't  know  he  would  like  to — he 
don't  want  she  should  be  worried — and,  anyhow,  as  'tis,  he 
can't  earn  enough  to  keep  ahead  of  all  the  doctors  cost." 

"  But  the  right  kind  of  a  wife — a  good,  competent  girl — 
could  help  out  by  earning  something,  too." 

Ev'leen  Ann  looked  at  me  forlornly,  with  no  surprise.  The 
idea  was  evidently  not  new  to  her.  "  Yes,  ma'am,  she  could. 
But  'Niram  says  he  ain't  the  kind  of  man  to  let  his  wife  go 
out  working."  Even  while  she  dropped  under  the  killing  ver 
dict  of  his  pride  she  was  loyal  to  his  standards  and  uttered 
no  complaint.  She  went  on,  "  'Niram  wants  Aunt  Em'line  to 


ig8  AMERICANS  ALL 

have  things  the  way  she  wants  'em,  as  near  as  he  can  give  'em 
to  her — and  it's  right  she  should." 

"  Aunt  Emeline?  "  I  repeated,  surprised  at  her  absence  of 
mind.  "  You  mean  Mrs.  Purdon,  don't  you?  " 

Ev'leen  Ann  looked  vexed  at  her  slip,  but  she  scorned  to 
attempt  any  concealment.  She  explained  dryly,  with  the  shy, 
stiff  embarrassment  our  country  people  have  in  speaking  of 
private  affairs:  "Well,  she  is  my  Aunt  Em'line,  Mrs.  Purdon 
is,  though  I  don't  hardly  ever  call  her  that.  You  see,  Aunt 
Emma  brought  me  up,  and  she  and  Aunt  Em'line  don't  have 
anything  to  do  with  each  other.  They  were  twins,  and  when 
they  were  girls  they  got  edgeways  over  'Niram's  father,  when 
'Niram  was  a  baby  and  his  father  was  a  young  widower  and 
come  courting.  Then  Aunt  Em'line  married  him,  and  Aunt 
Emma  never  spoke  to  her  afterward." 

Occasionally,  in  walking  unsuspectingly  along  one  of  our 
leafy  lanes,  some  such  fiery  geyser  of  ancient  heat  uprears 
itself  in  a  boiling  column.  I  never  get  used  to  it,  and  started 
back  now. 

"  Why,  I  never  heard  of  that  before,  and  I've  known  your 
Aunt  Emma  and  Mrs.  Purdon  for  years!  " 

"  Well,  they're  pretty  old  now,"  said  Ev'leen  Ann  listlessly, 
with  the  natural  indifference  of  self-centered  youth  to  the 
bygone  tragedies  of  the  preceding  generation.  "  It  happened 
quite  some  time  ago.  And  both  of  them  were  so  touchy, 
if  anybody  seemed  to  speak  about  it,  that  folks  got  in  the  way 
of  letting  it  alone.  First  Aunt  Emma  wouldn't  speak  to  her 
sister  because  she'd  married  the  man  she'd  wanted,  and  then 
when  Aunt  Emma  made  out  so  well  farmin'  and  got  so  well  off, 
why,  then  Mrs.  Purdon  wouldn't  try  to  make  up  because  she 
was  so  poor.  That  was  after  Mr.  Purdon  had  had  his  stroke 
of  paralysis  and  they'd  lost  their  farm  and  she'd  taken  to  goin' 
out  sewin' — not  but  what  she  was  always  perfectly  satisfied 
with  her  bargain.  She  always  acted  as  though  she'd  rather 
have  her  husband's  old  shirt  stuffed  with  straw  than  any  other 


FLINT  AND  FIRE  199 

man's  whole  body.    He  was  a  real  nice  man,  I  guess,  Mr.  Pur- 
don  was." 

There  I  had  it — the  curt,  unexpanded  chronicle  of  two  pas 
sionate  lives.  And  there  I  had  also  the  key  to  Mrs.  Purdon's 
fury  of  independence.  It  was  the  only  way  in  which  she  could 
defend  her  husband  against  the  charge,  so  damning  to  her 
world,  of  not  having  provided  for  his  wife.  It  was  the  only 
monument  she  could  rear  to  her  husband's  memory.  And  her 
husband  had  been  all  there  was  in  life  for  her! 

I  stood  looking  at  her  young  kinswoman's  face,  noting  the 
granite  under  the  velvet  softness  of  its  youth,  and  divining 
the  flame  underlying  the  granite.  I  longed  to  break  through 
her  wall  and  to  put  my  arms  about  her,  and  on  the  impulse 
of  the  moment  I  cast  aside  the  pretense  of  causualness  in  our 
talk. 

"  Oil,  my  dear!  "  I  said.  "Are  you  and  'Niram  always  to 
go  on  like  this?  Can't  anybody  help  you?  " 

Ev'leen  Ann  looked  at  me,  her  face  suddenly  old  and  gray. 
"  No,  ma'am;  we  ain't  going  to  go  on  this  way.  We've  de 
cided,  'Niram  and  I  have,  that  it  ain't  no  use.  We've  decided 
that  we'd  better  not  go  places  together  any  more  or  see  each 
other.  It's  too — If  'Niram  thinks  we  can't " — she  flamed 
so  that  I  knew  she  was  burning  from  head  to  foot — "  it's  bet 
ter  for  us  not "  She  ended  in  a  muffled  voice,  hiding  her 

face  in  the  crook  of  her  arm. 

Ah,  yes;  now  I  knew  why  Ev'leen  Ann  had  shut  out  the 
passionate  breath  of  the  spring  night! 

I  stood  near  her,  a  lump  in  my  throat,  but  I  divined  the 
anguish  of  her  shame  at  her  involuntary  self-revelation,  and 
respected  it.  I  dared  do  no  more  than  to  touch  her  shoulder 
gently. 

The  door  behind  us  rattled.  Ev'leen  Ann  sprang  up  and 
turned  her  face  toward  the  wall.  Paul's  cousin  came  in, 
shuffling  a  little,  blinking  his  eyes  in  the  light  of  the  unshaded 
lamp,  and  looking  very  cross  and  tired.  He  glanced  at  us 


200  AMERICANS  ALL 

without  comment  as  he  went  over  to  the  sink.  "  Nobody 
offered  me  anything  good  to  drink,"  he  complained,  "  so  I 
came  in  to  get  some  water  from  the  faucet  for  my  nightcap." 

When  he  had  drunk  with  ostentation  from  the  tin  dipper 
he  went  to  the  outside  door  and  flung  it  open.  "  Don't  you 
people  know  how  hot  and  smelly  it  is  in  here?  "  he  said,  with 
his  usual  unceremonious  abruptness. 

The  night  wind  burst  in,  eddying,  and  puffed  out  the  lamp 
with  a  breath.  In  an  instant  the  room  was  filled  with  coolness 
and  perfumes  and  the  rushing  sound  of  the  river.  Out  of  the 
darkness  came  Ev'leen  Ann's  young  voice.  "  It  seems  to 
me,"  she  said,  as  though  speaking  to  herself,  "  that  I  never 
heard  the  Mill  Brook  sound  so  loud  as  it  has  this  spring." 

I  woke  up  that  night  with  the  start  one  has  at  a  sudden  call 
But  there  had  been  no  call.  A  profound  silence  spread  ik 
self  through  the  sleeping  house.  Outdoors  the  wind  had  diecj 
down.  Only  the  loud  brawl  of  the  river  broke  the  stillness 
under  the  stars.  But  all  through  this  silence  and  this  vibrant 
song  there  rang  a  soundless  menace  which  brought  me  out  of 
bed  and  to  my  feet  before  I  was  awake.  I  heard  Paul  say, 
"  What's  the  matter?  "  in  a  sleepy  voice,  and  "  Nothing,"  I 
answered,  reaching  for  my  dressing  gown  and  slippers.  I  lis 
tened  for  a  moment,  my  head  ringing  with  all  the  frightened 
tales  of  the  morbid  vein  of  violence  which  runs  through  the 
character  of  our  reticent  people.  There  was  still  no  sound. 
I  went  along  the  hall  and  up  the  stairs  to  Ev'leen  Ann's  room, 
and  I  opened  the  door  without  knocking.  The  room  was 
empty. 

Then  how  I  ran!  Calling  loudly  for  Paul  to  join  me,  I  ran 
down  the  two  flights  of  stairs,  out  of  the  open  door,  and  along 
the  hedged  path  which  leads  down  to  the  little  river.  The  star 
light  was  clear.  I  could  see  everything  as  plainly  as  though  in 
early  dawn.  I  saw  the  river,  and  I  saw — Ev'leen  Ann. 

There  was  a  dreadful  moment  of  horror,  which  I  shall  never 


FLINT  AND  FIRE  201 

remember  very  clearly,  and  then  Ev'leen  Ann  and  I — both  very 
wet — stood  on  the  bank,  shuddering  in  each  other's  arms. 

Into  our  hysteria  there  dropped,  like  a  pungent  caustic,  the 
arid  voice  of  Horace,  remarking,  "  Well,  are  you  two  people 
crazy,  or  are  you  walking  in  your  sleep?  " 

I  could  feel  Ev'leen  Ann  stiffen  in  my  arms,  and  I  fairly 
stepped  back  from  her  in  astonished  admiration  as  I  heard 
her  snatch  at  the  straw  thus  offered,  and  still  shuddering 
horribly  from  head  to  foot,  force  herself  to  say  quite  con 
nectedly:  "  Why — yes — of  course — I've  always  heard  about 
my  grandfather  Parkman's  walking  in  his  sleep.  Folks  said 
'twould  come  out  in  the  family  some  time." 

Paul  was  close  behind  Horace — I  wondered  a  little  at  his  not 
being  first — and  with  many  astonished  and  inane  ejaculations, 
such  as  people  always  make  on  startling  occasions,  we  made 
our  way  back  into  the  house  to  hot  blankets  and  toddies.  But 
I  slept  no  more  that  night. 

Some  time  after  dawn,  however,  I  did  fall  into  a  troubled 
unconsciousness  full  of  bad  dreams,  and  only  woke  when  the 
sun  was  quite  high.  I  opened  my  eyes  to  see  Ev'leen  Ann  about 
to  close  the  door. 

"  Oh,  did  I  wake  you  up?  "  she  said.  "  I  didn't  mean  to. 
That  little  Harris  boy  is  here  with  a  letter  for  you." 

She  spoke  with  a  slightly  defiant  tone  of  self-possession.  I 
tried  to  play  up  to  her  interpretation  of  her  role. 

"  The  little  Harris  boy?  "  I  said,  sitting  up  in  bed.  "  What 
in  the  world  is  he  bringing  me  a  letter  for?  " 

Ev'leen  Ann,  with  her  usual  clear  perception  of  the  super 
fluous  in  conversation,  vouchsafed  no  opinion  on  a  matter  where 
she  had  no  information,  but  went  downstairs  and  brought  back 
the  note.  It  was  of  four  lines,  and — surprisingly  enough — 
from  old  Mrs.  Purdon,  who  asked  me  abruptly  if  I  would  have 
my  husband  take  me  to  see  her.  She  specified,  and  underlined 
the  specification,  that  I  was  to  come  "  right  off,  and  in  the 
automobile."  Wondering  extremely  at  this  mysterious  bidding, 


202  AMERICANS  ALL 

I  sought  out  Paul,  who  obediently  cranked  up  our  small  car 
and  carried  me  off.  There  was  no  sign  of  Horace  about  the 
house,  but  some  distance  on  the  other  side  of  the  village  we  saw 
his  tall,  stooping  figure  swinging  along  the  road.  He  carried  a 
cane  and  was  characteristically  occupied  in  violently  switching 
off  the  heads  from  the  wayside  weeds  as  he  walked.  He  re 
fused  our  offer  to  take  him  in,  alleging  that  he  was  out  for 
exercise  and  to  reduce  his  flesh — an  ancient  jibe  at  his 
bony  frame  which  made  him  for  an  instant  show  a  leathery 
smile. 

There  was,  of  course,  no  one  at  Mrs.  Purdon's  to  let  us  into 
the  tiny,  three-roomed  house,  since  the  bedridden  invalid  spent 
her  days  there  alone  while  'Niram  worked  his  team  on  other 
people's  fields.  Not  knowing  what  we  might  find,  Paul  stayed 
outside  in  the  car,  while  I  stepped  inside  in  answer  to  Mrs. 
Purdon's  "  Come  in,  why  don't  yoii!  "  which  sounded  quite 
as  dry  as  usual.  But  when  I  saw  her  I  knew  that  things  were 
not  as  usual. 

She  lay  flat  on  her  back,  the  little  emaciated  wisp  of  human 
ity,  hardly  raising  the  piecework  quilt  enough  to  make  the  bed 
seem  occupied,  and  to  account  for  the  thin,  worn  old  face  on 
the  pillow.  But  as  I  entered  the  room  her  eyes  seized  on 
mine,  and  I  was  aware  of  nothing  but  them  and  some  fury  of 
determination  behind  them.  With  a  fierce  heat  of  impatience 
at  my  first  natural  but  quickly  repressed  exclamation  of  sur 
prise  she  explained  briefly  that  she  wanted  Paul  to  lift  her 
into  the  automobile  and  take  her  into  the  next  township  to 
the  Hulett  farm.  "  I'm  so  shrunk  away  to  nuthin',  I  know 
I  can  lay  on  the  back  seat  if  I  crook  myself  up,"  she  said,  with 
a  cool  accent  but  a  rather  shaky  voice.  Seeming  to  realize  that 
even  her  intense  desire  to  strike  the  matter-of-fact  note  could 
not  take  the  place  of  any  and  all  explanation  of  her  extra 
ordinary  request,  she  added,  holding  my  eyes  steady  with  her 
own:  "  Emma  Hulett's  my  twin  sister.  I  guess  it  ain't  so 
queer,  my  wanting  to  see  her." 


FLINT  AND  FIRE  203 

I  thought,  of  course,  we  were  to  be  used  as  the  medium 
for  some  strange,  sudden  family  reconciliation,  and  went  out 
to  ask  Paul  if  he  thought  he  could  carry  the  old  invalid  to 
the  car.  He  replied  that,  so  far  as  that  went,  he  could  carry 
so  thin  an  old  body  ten  times  around  the  town,  but  that  he 
refused  absolutely  to  take  such  a  risk  without  authorization 
from  her  doctor.  I  remembered  the  burning  eyes  of  resolution 
I  had  left  inside,  and  sent  him  to  present  his  objections  to  Mrs. 
Purdon  herself. 

In  a  few  moments  I  saw  him  emerge  from  the  house  with  the 
old  woman  in  his  arms.  He  had  evidently  taken  her  up  just 
as  she  lay.  The  piecework  quilt  hung  down  in  long  folds,  flash 
ing  its  brilliant  reds  and  greens  in  the  sunshine,  which  shone  so 
strangely  upon  the  pallid  old  countenance,  facing  the  open  sky 
for  the  first  time  in  years. 

We  drove  in  silence  through  the  green  and  gold  lyric  of  the 
spring  day,  an  elderly  company  sadly  out  of  key  with  the 
triumphant  note  of  eternal  youth  which  rang  through  all  the 
visible  world.  Mrs.  Purdon  looked  at  nothing,  said  nothing, 
seemed  to  be  aware  of  nothing  but  the  purpose  in  her  heart, 
whatever  that  might  be.  Paul  and  I,  taking  a  leaf  from  our 
neighbors'  book,  held,  with  a  courage  like  theirs,  to  their  ex 
cellent  habit  of  saying  nothing  when  there  is  nothing  to  say. 
We  arrived  at  the  fine  old  Hulett  place  without  the  exchange 
of  a  single  word. 

"  Now  carry  me  in,"  said  Mrs.  Purdon  briefly,  evidently 
hoarding  her  strength. 

"  Wouldn't  I  better  go  and  see  if  Miss  Hulett  is  at  home?  " 
I  asked. 

Mrs.  Purdon  shook  her  head  impatiently  and  turned  her 
compelling  eyes  on  my  husband.  I  went  up  the  path  before 
them  to  knock  at  the  door,  wondering  what  the  people  in  the 
house  would  possibly  be  thinking  of  us.  There  was  no  an 
swer  to  my  knock.  "  Open  the  door  and  go  in,"  commanded 
Mrs.  Purdon  from  out  her  quilt. 


204  AMERICANS  ALL 

There  was  no  one  in  the  spacious,  white-paneled  hall,  and 
no  sound  in  all  the  big,  many-roomed  house. 

"  Emma's  out  feeding  the  hens,"  conjectured  Mrs.  Purdon, 
not,  I  fancied,  without  a  faint  hint  of  relief  in  her  voice.  "  Now 
carry  me  up-stairs  to  the  first  room  on  the  right." 

Half  hidden  by  his  burden,  Paul  rolled  wildly  inquiring  eyes 
at  me;  but  he  obediently  staggered  up  the  broad  old  staircase, 
and  waiting  till  I  had  opened  the  first  door  to  the  right,  stepped 
into  the  big  bedroom. 

"  Put  me  down  on  the  bsd,  and  open  them  shutters,"  Mrs. 
Purdon  commanded. 

She  still  marshaled  her  forces  with  no  lack  of  decision,  but 
with  a  fainting  voice  which  made  me  run  over  to  her  quickly  as 
Paul  laid  her  down  on  the  four-poster.  Her  eyes  were  still 
indomitable,  but  her  mouth  hung  open  slackly  and  her  color  was 
startling.  "  Oh,  Paul,  quick!  quick!  Haven't  you  your  flask 
with  you?  " 

Mrs.  Purdon  informed  me  in  a  barely  audible  whisper,  "  In 
the  corner  cupboard  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,"  and  I  flew  down 
the  hallway.  I  returned  with  a  bottle,  evidently  of  great  age. 
There  was  only  a  little  brandy  in  the  bottom,  but  it  whipped 
up  a  faint  color  into  the  sick  woman's  lips. 

As  I  was  bending  over  her  and  Paul  was  thrusting  open  the 
shutters,  letting  in  a  flood  of  sunshine  and  flecky  leaf-shadows, 
a  firm,  rapid  step  came  down  the  hall,  and  a  vigorous  woman, 
with  a  tanned  face  and  a  clean,  faded  gingham  dress,  stopped 
short  in  the  doorway  with  an  expression  of  stupefaction. 

Mrs.  Purdon  put  me  on  one  side,  and  although  she  was 
physically  incapable  of  moving  her  body  by  a  hair's  breadth, 
she  gave  the  effect  of  having  risen  to  meet  the  newcomer. 
"  Well,  Emma,  here  I  am,"  she  said  in  a  queer  voice,  with  in 
voluntary  quavers  in  it.  As  she  went  on  she  had  it  more  under 
control,  although  in  the  course  of  her  extraordinarily  succinct 
speech  it  broke  and  failed  her  occasionally.  When  it  did,  she 
drew  in  her  breath  with  an  audible,  painful  effort,  struggling 


FLINT  AND  FIRE  205 

forward  steadily  in  what  she  had  to  say.  "  You  see,  Emma, 
it's  this  way:  My  'Niram  and  your  Ev'leen  Ann  have  been  keep 
ing  company — ever  since  they  went  to  school  together — you 
know  that  's  well  as  I  do,  for  all  we  let  on  we  didn't,  only  I 
didn't  know  till  just  now  how  hard  they  took  it.  They  can't 
get  married  because  'Niram  can't  keep  even,  let  alone  get 
ahead  any,  because  I  cost  so  much  bein'  sick,  and  the  doctor 
says  I  may  live  for  years  this  way,  same's  Aunt  Hettie  did. 
An'  'Niram  is  thirty-one,  an'  Ev'leen  Ann  is  twenty-eight,  an' 
they've  had  'bout's  much  waitin'  as  is  good  for  folks  that  set 
such  store  by  each  other.  I've  thought  of  every  way  out  of  it — 
and  there  ain't  any.  The  Lord  knows  I  don't  enjoy  livin'  any, 
not  so's  to  notice  the  enjoyment,  and  I'd  thought  of  cutting 
my  throat  like  Uncle  Lish,  but  that'd  make  'Niram  and  Ev' 
leen  Ann  feel  so — to  think  why  I'd  done  it;  they'd  never  take 
the  comfort  they'd  ought  in  bein'  married;  so  that  won't  do. 
There's  only  one  thing  to  do.  I  guess  you'll  have  to  take  care 
of  me  till  the  Lord  calls  me.  Maybe  I  won't  last  so  long  as  the 
doctor  thinks." 

When  she  finished,  I  felt  my  ears  ringing  in  the  silence.  She 
had  walked  to  the  sacrificial  altar  with  so  steady  a  step,  and 
laid  upon  it  her  precious  all  with  so  gallant  a  front  of  quiet 
resolution,  that  for  an  instant  I  failed  to  take  in  the  sublimity 
of  her  self-immolation.  Mrs.  Purdon  asking  for  charity!  And 
asking  the  one  woman  who  had  most  reason  to  refuse  it  to  her. 

Paul  looked  at  me  miserably,  the  craven  desire  to  escape 
a  scene  written  all  over  him.  "  Wouldn't  we  better  be  going, 
Mrs.  Purdon?  "  I  said  uneasily.  I  had  not  ventured  to  look 
at  the  woman  in  the  doorway. 

Mrs.  Purdon  motioned  me  to  remain,  with  an  imperious 
gesture  whose  fierceness  showed  the  tumult  underlying  her 
brave  front.  "No;  I  want  you  should  stay.  I  want  you  should 
hear  what  I  say,  so's  you  can  tell  folks,  if  you  have  to.  Now, 
look  here,  Emma,"  she  went  on  to  the  other,  still  obstinately 
silent;  "  you  must  look  at  it  the  way  'tis.  We're  neither  of  us 


206  AMERICANS  ALL 

any  good  to  anybody,  the  way  we  are — and  I'm  dreadfully  in 
the  way  of  the  only  two  folks  we  care  a  pin  about — either  of 
us.  You've  got  plenty  to  do  with,  and  nothing  to  spend  it  on, 
I  can't  get  myself  out  of  their  way  by  dying  without  going 

against  what's  Scripture  and  proper,  but "    Her  steely  calm 

broke.  She  burst  out  in  a  screaming,  hysterical  voice:  "  You've 
just  got  to,  Emma  Hulett!  You've  just  got  to!  If  you  don't 
I  won't  never  go  back  to  'Niram's  house!  I'll  lie  in  the  ditch 
by  the  roadside  till  the  poor-master  comes  to  get  me — and  I'll 
tell  everybody  that  it's  because  my  own  twin  sister,  with  a  house 
and  a  farm  and  money  in  the  bank,  turned  me  out  to  starve — " 
A  fearful  spasm  cut  her  short.  She  lay  twisted  and  limp,  the 
whites  of  her  eyes  showing  between  the  lids. 

"  Good  God,  she's  gone!  "  cried  Paul,  running  to  the  bed. 

I  was  aware  that  the  woman  in  the  doorway  had  relaxed 
her  frozen  immobility  and  was  between  Paul  and  me  as  we 
rubbed  the  thin,  icy  hands  and  forced  brandy  between  the 
placid  lips.  We  all  three  thought  her  dead  or  dying,  and 
labored  over  her  with  the  frightened  thankfulness  for  one 
another's  living  presence  which  always  marks  that  dreadful 
moment.  But  even  as  we  fanned  and  rubbed,  and  cried  out  to 
one  another  to  open  the  windows  and  to  bring  water,  the  blue 

lips  moved  to  a  ghostly  whisper:  "Em,  listen "    The  old 

woman  went  back  to  the  nickname  of  their  common  youth. 
"  Em — your  Ev'leen  Ann — tried  to  drown  herself — in  the  Mill 

Brook  last  night  .  .  .  That's  what  decided  me — to "    And 

then  we  were  plunged  into  another  desperate  struggle  with 
Death  for  the  possession  of  the  battered  old  habitation  of  the 
dauntless  soul  before  us. 

"  Isn't  there  any  hot  water  in  the  house?  "  cried  Paul,  and 
"Yes,  yes;  a  tea-kettle  on  the  stove!  "  answered  the  woman 
who  labored  with  us.  Paul,  divining  that  she  meant  the  kitchen) 
fled  down-stairs.  I  stole  a  look  at  Emma  Hulett's  face  as 
she  bent  over  the  sister  she  had  not  seen  in  thirty  years,  and  I 
knew  that  Mrs.  Purdon's  battle  was  won.  It  even  seemed  that 


FLINT  AND  FIRE  207 

she  had  won  another  skirmish  in  her  never-ending  war  with 
death,  for  a  little  warmth  began  to  come  back  into  her  hands. 

When  Paul  returned  with  the  tea-kettle,  and  a  hot-water 
bottle  had  been  filled,  the  owner  of  the  house  straightened  her 
self,  assumed  her  rightful  position  as  mistress  of  the  situation, 
and  began  to  issue  commands.  "  You  git  right  in  the  automo 
bile,  and  go  git  the  doctor,"  she  told  Paul.  "  That'll  be  the 
quickest.  She's  better  now,  and  your  wife  and  I  can  keep  her 
goin'  till  the  doctor  gits  here." 

As  Paul  left  the  room  she  snatched  something  white  from 
a  bureau-drawer,  stripped  the  worn,  patched  old  cotton  night 
gown  from  the  skeleton-like  body,  and,  handling  the  invalid 
with  a  strong,  sure  touch,  slipped  on  a  soft,  woolly  outing-flan 
nel  wrapper  with  a  curious  trimming  of  zigzag  braid  down  the 
front.  Mrs.  Purdon  opened  her  eyes  very  slightly,  but  shut 
them  again  at  her  sister's  quick  command,  "  You  lay  still, 
Em'line,  and  drink  some  of  this  brandy."  She  obeyed  without 
comment,  but  after  a  pause  she  opened  her  eyes  again  and 
looked  down  at  the  new  garment  which  clad  her.  She  had 
that  moment  turned  back  from  the  door  of  death,  but  her 
first  breath  was  used  to  set  the  scene  for  a  return  to  a  decent 
decorum. 

"  You're  still  a  great  hand  for  rick-rack  work,  Em,  I  see," 
she  murmured  in  a  faint  whisper.  "  Do  you  remember  how 
surprised  Aunt  Su  was  when  you  made  up  a  pattern?  " 

"  Well,  I  hadn't  thought  of  it  for  quite  some  time,"  re 
turned  Miss  Hulett,  in  exactly  the  same  tone  of  everyday 
remark.  As  she  spoke  she  slipped  her  arm  under  the  other's 
head  and  poked  the  pillow  to  a  more  comfortable  shape.  "  Now 
you  lay  perfectly  still,"  she  commanded  in  the  hectoring  tone 
of  the  born  nurse;  "  I'm  goin'  to  run  down  and  make  you  up 
a  good  hot  cup  of  sassafras  tea." 

I  followed  her  down  into  the  kitchen  and  was  met  by  the 
same  refusal  to  be  melodramatic  which  I  had  encountered  in 
Ev'leen  Ann.  I  was  most  anxious  to  know  what  version  of  my 


208  AMERICANS  ALL 

extraordinary  morning  I  was  to  give  out  to  the  world,  but  hung 
silent,  positively  abashed  by  the  cool  casualness  of  the  other 
woman  as  she  mixed  her  brew.  Finally,  "  Shall  I  tell  'Niram — 

What  shall  I  say  to  Ev'leen  Ann?  If  anybody  asks  me " 

I  brought  out  with  clumsy  hesitation. 

At  the  realization  that  her  reserve  and  family  pride  were 
wholly  at  the  mercy  of  any  report  I  might  choose  to  give,  even 
my  iron  hostess  faltered.  She  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor,  looked  at  me  silently,  piteously,  and  found  no  word. 

I  hastened  to  assure  her  that  I  would  attempt  no  hateful 
picturesquness  of  narration.  "  Suppose  I  just  say  that  you 
were  rather  lonely  here,  now  that  Ev'leen  Ann  has  left  you, 
and  that  you  thought  it  would  be  nice  to  have  your  sister  come 
to  stay  with  you,  so  that  'Niram  and  Ev'leen  Ann  can  be 
married?  " 

Emma  Hulett  breathed  again.  She  walked  toward  the  stairs 
with  the  steaming  cup  in  her  hand.  Over  her  shoulder  she 
remarked,  "Well,  yes,  ma'am;  that  would  be  as  good  a  way 
to  put  it  as  any,  I  guess." 

'Niram  and  Ev'leen  Ann  were  standing  up  to  be  married. 
They  looked  very  stiff  and  self-conscious,  and  Ev'leen  Ann  was 
very  pale.  'Niram's  big  hands,  bent  in  the  crook  of  a  man 
who  handles  tools,  hung  down  by  his  new  black  trousers.  Ev' 
leen  Ann's  strong  fingers  stood  out  stiffly  from  one  another. 
They  looked  hard  at  the  minister  and  repeated  after  him  in  low 
and  meaningless  tones  the  solemn  and  touching  words  of  the 
marriage  service.  Back  of  them  stood  the  wedding  company,  in 
freshly  washed  and  ironed  white  dresses,  new  straw  hats,  and 
black  suits  smelling  of  camphor.  In  the  background  among 
the  other  elders,  stood  Paul  and  Horace  and  I —  my  husband 
and  I  hand  in  hand ;  Horace  twiddling  the  black  ribbon  which 
holds  his  watch,  and  looking  bored.  Through  the  open  win 
dows  into  the  stuffiness  of  the  best  room  came  an  echo  of  the 
deep  organ  note  of  midsummer. 


FLINT  AND  FIRE  209 

"  Whom  God  hath  joined  together "  said  the  minister, 

and  the  epitome  of  humanity  which  filled  the  room  held  its 
breath — the  old  with  a  wonder  upon  their  life-scarred  faces, 
the  young  half  frightened  to  feel  the  stir  of  the  great  wings 
soaring  so  near  them. 

Then  it  was  all  over.  'Niram  and  Ev'leen  Ann  were  married, 
and  the  rest  of  us  were  bustling  about  to  serve  the  hot  biscuit 
and  coffee  and  chicken  salad,  and  to  dish  up  the  ice-cream. 
Afterward  there  were  no  citified  refinements  of  cramming 
rice  down  the  necks  of  the  departing  pair  or  tying  placards 
to  the  carriage  in  which  they  went  away.  Some  of  the  men 
went  out  to  the  barn  and  hitched  up  for  'Niram,  and  we  all 
went  down  to  the  gate  to  see  them  drive  off.  They  might  have 
been  going  for  one  of  their  Sunday  afternoon  "  buggy-rides  " 
except  for  the  wet  eyes  of  the  foolish  women  and  girls  who 
stood  waving  their  hands  in  answer  to  the  flutter  of  Ev'leen 
Ann's  handkerchief  as  the  carriage  went  down  the  hill. 

We  had  nothing  to  say  to  one  another  after  they  left,  and 
began  soberly  to  disperse  to  our  respective  vehicles.  But  as  I 
was  getting  into  our  car  a  new  thought  suddenly  struck  me. 

"Why,"  I  cried,  "I  never  thought  of  it  before!  However 
in  the  world  did  old  Mrs.  Purdon  know  about  Ev'leen  Ann — 
that  night?  " 

Horace  was  pulling  at  the  door,  which  was  badly  adjusted 
and  shut  hard.  He  closed  it  with  a  vicious  slam  "  /  told  her," 
he  said  crossly. 


HOW  "  FLINT  AND  FIRE  "  STARTED 
AND  GREW 

BY 

DOROTHY  CANFIELD 

I  feel  very  dubious  about  the  wisdom  or  usefulness  of  pub 
lishing  the  following  statement  of  how  one  of  my  stories  came 
into  existence.  This  is  not  on  account  of  the  obvious  danger  of 
seeming  to  have  illusions  about  the  value  of  my  work,  as 
though  I  imagined  one  of  my  stories  was  inherently  worth  in 
itself  a  careful  public  analysis  of  its  growth;  the  chance,  remote 
as  it  might  be,  of  usefulness  to  students,  would  outweigh  this 
personal  consideration.  What  is  more  important  is  the  dan 
ger  that  some  student  may  take  the  explanation  as  a  recipe 
or  rule  for  the  construction  of  other  stories,  and  I  totally  dis 
believe  in  such  rules  or  recipes. 

As  a  rule,  when  a  story  is  finished,  and  certainly  always  by 
the  time  it  is  published,  I  have  no  recollection  of  the  various 
phases  of  its  development.  In  the  case  of  "  Flint  and  Fire  ", 
an  old  friend  chanced  to  ask  me,  shortly  after  the  tale  was 
completed,  to  write  out  for  his  English  classes,  the  stages  of 
the  construction  of  a  short  story.  I  set  them  down,  hastily, 
formlessly,  but  just  as  they  happened,  and  this  gives  me  a 
record  which  I  could  not  reproduce  for  any  other  story  I  ever 
wrote.  These  notes  are  here  published  on  the  chance  that  such 
a  truthful  record  of  the  growth  of  one  short  story,  may  have 
some  general  suggestiveness  for  students. 

No  two  of  my  stories  are  ever  constructed  in  the  same  way, 
but  broadly  viewed  they  all  have  exactly  the  same  genesis, 
and  I  confess  I  cannot  conceive  of  any  creative  fiction  written 

210 


HOW  "FLINT  AND  FIRE"  STARTED          211 

from  any  other  beginning  .  .  .  that  of  a  generally  intensified 
emotional  sensibility,  such  as  every  human  being  experiences 
with  more  or  less  frequency.  Everybody  knows  such  occasional 
hours  or  days  of  freshened  emotional  responses  when  events 
that  usually  pass  almost  unnoticed,  suddenly  move  you  deeply, 
when  a  sunset  lifts  you  to  exaltation,  when  a  squeaking  door 
throws  you  into  a  fit  of  exasperation,  when  a  clear  look  of 
trust  in  a  child's  eyes  moves  you  to  tears,  or  an  injustice  re 
ported  in  the  newspapers  to  flaming  indignation,  a  good  action 
to  a  sunny  warm  love  of  human  nature,  a  discovered  meanness 
in  yourself  or  another,  to  despair. 

I  have  no  idea  whence  this  tide  comes,  or  where  it  goes, 
but  when  it  begins  to  rise  in  my  heart,  I  know  that  a 
story  is  hovering  in  the  offing.  It  does  not  always  come  safely 
to  port.  The  daily  routine  of  ordinary  life  kills  off  many  a 
vagrant  emotion.  Or  if  daily  humdrum  occupation  does  not 
stifle  it,  perhaps  this  saturated  solution  of  feeling  does  not 
happen  to  crystallize  about  any  concrete  fact,  episode,  word  or 
phrase.  In  my  own  case,  it  is  far  more  likely  to  seize  on  some 
slight  trifle,  the  shade  of  expression  on  somebody's  face,  or  the 
tone  of  somebody's  voice,  than  to  accept  a  more  complete, 
ready-made  episode.  Especially  this  emotion  refuses  to  crystal 
lize  about,  or  to  have  anything  to  do  with  those  narrations  of 
our  actual  life,  offered  by  friends  who  are  sure  that  such-and- 
such  a  happening  is  so  strange  or  interesting  that  "  it  ought  to 
go  in  a  story." 

The  beginning  of  a  story  is  then  for  me  in  more  than  usual 
sensitiveness  to  emotion.  If  this  encounters  the  right  focus 
(and  heaven  only  knows  why  it  is  the  "  right "  one)  I  get 
simultaneously  a  strong  thrill  of  intense  feeling,  and  an  in 
tense  desire  to  pass  it  on  to  other  people.  This  emotion  may 
be  any  one  of  the  infinitely  varied  ones  which  life  affords, 
laughter,  sorrow,  indignation,  gayety,  admiration,  scorn,  pleas 
ure.  I  recognize  it  for  the  "  right "  one  when  it  brings  with 
it  an  irresistible  impulse  to  try  to  make  other  people  feel  it. 


212  AMERICANS  ALL 

And  I  know  that  when  it  comes,  the  story  is  begun.  At  this 
point,  the  story  begins  to  be  more  or  less  under  my  conscious 
control,  and  it  is  here  that  the  work  of  construction  begins. 

"  Flint  and  Fire  "  thus  hovered  vaguely  in  a  shimmer  of  gen 
eral  emotional  tensity,  and  thus  abruptly  crystallized  itself 
about  a  chance  phrase  and  the  cadence  of  the  voice  which 
pronounced  it.  For  several  days  I  had  been  almost  painfully 
alive  to  the  beauty  of  an  especially  lovely  spring,  always  so 
lovely  after  the  long  winter  in  the  mountains.  One  evening, 
going  on  a  very  prosaic  errand  to  a  farm-house  of  our  region, 
I  walked  along  a  narrow  path  through  dark  pines,  beside  a 
brook  swollen  with  melting  snow,  and  found  the  old  man  I 
came  to  see,  sitting  silent  and  alone  before  his  blackened  small 
old  house.  I  did  my  errand,  and  then  not  to  offend  against  our 
country  standards  of  sociability,  sat  for  half  an  hour  beside  him. 

The  old  man  had  been  for  some  years  desperately  unhappy 
about  a  tragic  and  permanent  element  in  his  life.  I  had  known 
this,  every  one  knew  it.  But  that  evening,  played  upon  as  I 
had  been  by  the  stars,  the  darkness  of  the  pines  and  the  shout 
ing  voice  of  the  brook,  I  suddenly  stopped  merely  knowing  it, 
and  felt  it.  It  seemed  to  me  that  his  misery  emanated  from  him 
like  a  soundless  wail  of  anguish.  We  talked  very  little,  odds 
and  ends  of  neighborhood  gossip,  until  the  old  man,  shifting  his 
position,  drew  a  long  breath  and  said,  "  Seems  to  me  I  never 
heard  the  brook  sound  so  loud  as  it  has  this  spring."  There 
came  instantly  to  my  mind  the  recollection  that  his  grand 
father  had  drowned  himself  in  that  brook,  and  I  sat  silent, 
shaken  by  that  thought  and  by  the  sound  of  his  voice.  I  have 
no  words  to  attempt  to  reproduce  his  voice,  or  to  try  to  make 
you  feel  as  I  did,  hot  and  cold  with  the  awe  of  that  glimpse  into 
a  naked  human  heart.  I  felt  my  own  heart  contract  dreadfully 
with  helpless  sympathy  .  .  .  and,  I  hope  this  is  not  as 
ugly  as  it  sounds,  I  knew  at  the  same  instant  that  I  would  try 
to  get  that  pang  of  emotion  into  a  story  and  make  other  people 
feel  it. 


HOW  "FLINT  AND  FIRE"  STARTED          213 

That  is  all.  That  particular  phase  of  the  construction  of  the 
story  came  and  went  between  two  heart-beats. 

I  came  home  by  the  same  path  through  the  same  pines  along 
the  same  brook,  sinfully  blind  and  deaf  to  the  beauty  that  had 
so  moved  me  an  hour  ago.  I  was  too  busy  now  to  notice  any 
thing  outside  the  rapid  activity  going  on  inside  my  head.  My 
mind  was  working  with  a  swiftness  and  a  coolness  which  I  am 
somewhat  ashamed  to  mention,  and  my  emotions  were  calmed, 
relaxed,  let  down  from  the  tension  of  the  last  few  days  and  the 
last  few  moments.  They  had  found  their  way  out  to  an  at 
tempt  at  self-expression  and  were  at  rest.  I  realize  that  this 
is  not  at  all  estimable.  The  old  man  was  just  as  unhappy  as 
he  had  been  when  I  had  felt  my  heart  breaking  with  sympathy 
for  him,  but  now  he  seemed  very  far  away. 

I  was  snatching  up  one  possibility  after  another,  consider 
ing  it  for  a  moment,  casting  it  away  and  pouncing  on  another. 
First  of  all,  the  story  must  be  made  as  remote  as  possible  from 
resembling  the  old  man  or  his  trouble,  lest  he  or  any  one  in 
the  world  might  think  he  was  intended,  and  be  wounded. 

What  is  the  opposite  pole  from  an  old  man's  tragedy?  A 
lover's  tragedy,  of  course.  Yes,  it  must  be  separated  lovers, 
young  and  passionate  and  beautiful,  because  they  would  fit 
in  with  the  back-ground  of  spring,  and  swollen  shouting  starlit 
brooks,  and  the  yearly  resurrection  which  was  so  closely  con 
nected  with  that  ache  of  emotion  that  they  were  a  part  of 
it. 

Should  the  separation  come  from  the  weakness  or  faithless 
ness  of  one  of  the  lovers?  No,  ah  no,  I  wanted  it  without 
ugliness,  pure  beautiful  sorrow,  to  fit  that  dark  shadow  of  the 
pines  .  .  .  the  lovers  must  be  separated  by  outside  forces. 

What  outside  forces?  Lack  of  money?  Family  opposition? 
Both,  perhaps.  I  knew  plenty  of  cases  of  both  in  the  life  of  our 
valley. 

By  this  time  I  had  come  again  to  our  own  house  and  was 
swallowed  in  the  usual  thousand  home-activities.  But  under- 


214  AMERICANS  ALL 

neath  all  that,  quite  steadily  my  mind  continued  to  work  on 
the  story  as  a  wasp  in  a  barn  keeps  on  silently  plastering  up 
the  cells  of  his  nest  in  the  midst  of  the  noisy  activities  of  farm- 
life.  I  said  to  one  of  the  children,  "  Yes,  dear,  wasn't  it  fun!  " 
and  to  myself,  "  To  be  typical  of  our  tradition-ridden  valley- 
people,  the  opposition  ought  to  come  from  the  dead  hand  of 
the  past."  I  asked  a  caller,  "  One  lump  or  two?  "  and  thought 
as  I  poured  the  tea,  "  And  if  the  character  of  that  opposition 
could  be  made  to  indicate  a  fierce  capacity  for  passionate  feel 
ing  in  the  older  generation,  that  would  make  it  doubly  useful 
in  the  story,  not  only  as  part  of  the  machinery  of  the  plot, 
but  as  indicating  an  inheritance  of  passionate  feeling  in  the 
younger  generation,  with  whom  the  story  is  concerned."  I 
dozed  off  at  night,  and  woke  to  find  myself  saying,  "  It  could 
come  from  the  jealousy  of  two  sisters,  now  old  women." 

But  that  meant  that  under  ordinary  circumstances  the  lovers 
would  have  been  first  cousins,  and  this  might  cause  a  subcon 
scious  wavering  of  attention  on  the  part  of  some  readers  .... 
just  as  well  to  get  that  stone  out  of  the  path!  I  darned  a  sock 
and  thought  out  the  relationship  in  the  story,  and  was  rewarded 
with  a  revelation  of  the  character  of  the  sick  old  woman, 
'Niram's  step-mother. 

Upon  this,  came  one  of  those  veering  lists  of  the  ballast 
aboard  which  are  so  disconcerting  to  the  author.  The  story 
got  out  of  hand.  The  old  woman  silent,  indomitable,  fed  and 
deeply  satisfied  for  all  of  her  hard  and  grinding  life  by  her  love 
for  the  husband  whom  she  had  taken  from  her  sister,  she 
stepped  to  the  front  of  my  stage,  and  from  that  moment  on, 
dominated  the  action.  I  did  not  expect  this,  nor  desire  it,  and  I 
was  very  much  afraid  that  the  result  would  be  a  perilously  di 
vided  interest  which  would  spoil  the  unity  of  impression  of  the 
story.  It  now  occurs  to  me  that  this  unexpected  shifting  of 
values  may  have  been  the  emergence  of  the  element  of  tragic 
old  age  which  had  been  the  start  of  the  story  and  which  I  had 
conscientiously  tried  to  smother  out  of  sight.  At  any  rate, 


HOW  "FLINT  AND  FIRE"  STARTED          215 

there  she  was,  more  touching,  pathetic,  striking,  to  my  eyes 
with  her  life-time  proof  of  the  reality  of  her  passion,  than  my 
untried  young  lovers  who  up  to  that  time  had  seemed  to  me, 
in  the  full  fatuous  flush  of  invention  as  I  was,  as  ill-starred,  in 
nocent  and  touching  lovers  as  anybody  had  ever  seen. 

Alarmed  about  this  double  interest  I  went  on  with  the  weav 
ing  back  and  forth  of  the  elements  of  the  plot  which  now  in 
volved  the  attempt  to  arouse  in  the  reader's  heart  as  in  mine  a 
sympathy  for  the  bed-ridden  old  Mrs.  Purdon  and  a  compre 
hension  of  her  sacrifice. 

My  daily  routine  continued  as  usual,  gardening,  telling 
stories,  music,  sewing,  dusting,  motoring,  callers  .  .  .  one  of 
them,  a  self-consciously  sophisticated  Europeanized  American, 
not  having  of  course  any  idea  of  what  was  filling  my  inner 
life,  rubbed  me  frightfully  the  wrong  way  by  making  a  slight 
ing  condescending  allusion  to  what  he  called  the  mean,  emo 
tional  poverty  of  our  inarticulate  mountain  people.  I  flew 
into  a  silent  rage  at  him,  though  scorning  to  discuss  with  him 
a  matter  I  felt  him  incapable  of  understanding,  and  the  charac 
ter  of  Cousin  Horace  went  into  the  story.  He  was  for  the 
first  day  or  two,  a  very  poor  cheap  element,  quite  unreal,  un 
realized,  a  mere  man  of  straw  to  be  knocked  over  by  the  per 
sonages  of  the  tale.  Then  I  took  myself  to  task,  told  myself 
that  I  was  spoiling  a  story  merely  to  revenge  myself  on  a 
man  I  cared  nothing  about,  and  that  I  must  either  take 
Cousin  Horace  out  or  make  him  human.  One  day,  working 
in  the  garden,  I  laughed  out  suddenly,  delighted  with  the  whim 
sical  idea  of  making  him,  almost  in  spite  of  himself,  the  deus 
ex  machina  of  my  little  drama,  quite  soft  and  sympathetic  under 
his  shell  of  would-be  worldly  disillusion,  as  occasionally  hap 
pens  to  elderly  bachelors. 

At  this  point  the  character  of  'Niram's  long-dead  father 
came  to  life  and  tried  to  push  his  way  into  the  story,  a  delight 
ful,  gentle,  upright  man,  with  charm  and  a  sense  of  humor, 
such  as  none  of  the  rest  of  my  stark  characters  possessed.  I 


2i6  AMERICANS  ALL 

felt  that  he  was  necessary  to  explain  the  fierceness  of  the 
sisters'  rivalry  for  him.  I  planned  one  or  two  ways  to  get 
him  in,  in  retrospect — and  liked  one  of  the  scenes  better  than 
anything  that  finally  was  left  in  the  story.  Finally,  very  heavy- 
hearted,  I  put  him  out  of  the  story,  for  the  merely  material 
reason  that  there  was  no  room  for  him.  As  usual  with  my 
story-making,  this  plot  was  sprouting  out  in  a  dozen  places, 
expanding,  opening  up,  till  I  perceived  that  I  had  enough  mat 
erial  for  a  novel.  For  a  day  or  so  I  hung  undecided.  Would 
it  perhaps  be  better  to  make  it  a  novel  and  really  tell  about 
those  characters  all  I  knew  and  guessed?  But  again  a  con 
sideration  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  artistic  form,  settled  the 
matter.  I  saw  no  earthly  possibility  of  getting  time  enough  to 
write  a  novel.  So  I  left  Mr.  Purdon  out,  and  began  to  think 
of  ways  to  compress  my  material,  to  make  one  detail  do  double 
work  so  that  space  might  be  saved. 

One  detail  of  the  mechanism  remained  to  be  arranged,  and 
this  ended  by  deciding  the  whole  form  of  the  story,  and  the 
first-person  character  of  the  recital.  This  was  the  question 
of  just  how  it  would  have  been  materially  possible  for  the 
bed-ridden  old  woman  to  break  down  the  life-long  barrier  be 
tween  her  and  her  sister,  and  how  she  could  have  reached  her 
effectively  and  forced  her  hand.  I  could  see  no  way  to  manage 
this  except  by  somehow  transporting  her  bodily  to  the  sister's 
house,  so  that  she  could  not  be  put  out  on  the  road  without 
public  scandal.  This  transportation  must  be  managed  by  some 
character  not  in  the  main  action,  as  none  of  the  persons  in 
volved  would  have  been  willing  to  help  her  to  this.  It  looked 
like  putting  in  another  character,  just  for  that  purpose,  and  of 
course  he  could  not  be  put  in  without  taking  the  time  to  make 
him  plausible,  human,  understandable  .  .  .  and  I  had  just 
left  out  that  charming  widower  for  sheer  lack  of  space.  Well, 
why  not  make  it  a  first  person  story,  and  have  the  narrator 
be  the  one  who  takes  Mrs.  Purdon  to  her  sister's?  The  nar 
rator  of  the  story  never  needs  to  be  explained,  always  seems 


HOW  "FLINT  AND  FIRE"  STARTED          217 

sufficiently  living  and  real  by  virtue  of  the  supremely  human 
act  of  so  often  saying  "  I  ". 

Now  the  materials  were  ready,  the  characters  fully  alive  in  my 
mind  and  entirely  visualized,  even  to  the  smoothly  braided  hair 
of  Ev'leen  Ann,  the  patch-work  quilt  of  the  old  woman  out- 
of-doors,  and  the  rustic  wedding  at  the  end,  all  details  which 
had  recently  chanced  to  draw  my  attention;  I  heard  every 
thing  through  the  song  of  the  swollen  brook,  one  of  the  main 
characters  in  the  story,  (although  by  this  time  in  actual  fact, 
June  and  lower  water  had  come  and  the  brook  slid  quiet  and 
gleaming,  between  placid  green  banks)  and  I  often  found  myself 
smiling  foolishly  in  pleasure  over  the  buggy  going  down  the 
hill,  freighted  so  richly  with  hearty  human  joy. 

The  story  was  now  ready  to  write. 

I  drew  a  long  breath  of  mingled  anticipation  and  appre 
hension,  somewhat  as  you  do  when  you  stand,  breathing  quickly, 
balanced  on  your  skis,  at  the  top  of  a  long  white  slope  you 
are  not  sure  you  are  clever  enough  to  manage.  Sitting  down 
at  my  desk  one  morning,  I  "  pushed  off "  and  with  a  tingle 
of  not  altogether  pleasurable  exciement  and  alarm,  felt  my 
self  "  going."  I  "  went "  almost  as  precipitately  as  skis  go 
down  a  long  white  slope,  scribbling  as  rapidly  as  my  pencil 
could  go,  indicating  whole  words  with  a  dash  and  a  jiggle, 
filling  page  after  page  with  scrawls  ...  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  had  been  at  work  perhaps  half  an  hour,  when  someone  was 
calling  me  impatiently  to  lunch.  I  had  been  writing  four  hours 
without  stopping.  My  cheeks  were  flaming,  my  feet  were  cold, 
my  lips  parched.  It  was  high  time  someone  called  me  to 
lunch. 

The  next  morning,  back  at  the  desk,  I  looked  over  what  I  had 
written,  conquered  the  usual  sick  qualms  of  discouragement  at 
finding  it  so  infinitely  flat  and  insipid  compared  to  what  I  had 
wished  to  make  it,  and  with  a  very  clear  idea  of  what  remained 
to  be  done,  plodded  ahead  doggedly,  and  finished  the  first 
draught  before  noon.  It  was  almost  twice  too  long. 


218  AMERICANS  ALL 

After  this  came  a  period  of  steady  desk  work,  every  morning, 
of  re-writing,  compression,  more  compression,  and  the  more  or 
less  mechanical  work  of  technical  revision,  what  a  member  of 
my  family  calls  "  cutting  out  the  'whiches' ".  The  first  thing 
to  do  each  morning  was  to  read  a  part  of  it  over  aloud,  sen 
tence  by  sentence,  to  try  to  catch  clumsy,  ungraceful  phrases, 
overweights  at  one  end  or  the  other,  "  ringing  "  them  as  you 
ring  a  dubious  coin,  clipping  off  too-trailing  relative  clauses, 
"  listening  "  hard.  This  work  depends  on  what  is  known  in 
music  as  "  ear  ",  and  in  my  case  it  cannot  be  kept  up  long  at 
a  time,  because  I  find  my  attention  flagging.  When  I  begin 
to  suspect  that  my  ear  is  dulling,  I  turn  to  other  varieties  of 
revision,  of  which  there  are  plenty  to  keep  anybody  busy;  for 
instance  revision  to  explain  facts;  in  this  category  is  the  sen 
tence  just  after  the  narrator  suspects  Ev'leen  Ann  has  gone 
down  to  the  brook,  "  my  ears  ringing  with  all  the  frightening 
tales  of  the  morbid  vein  of  violence  which  runs  through  the 
characters  of  our  reticent  people."  It  seemed  too  on  re-reading 
the  story  for  the  tenth  or  eleventh  time,  that  for  readers  who 
do  not  know  our  valley  people,  the  girl's  attempt  at  suicide 
might  seem  improbable.  Some  reference  ought  to  be  brought 
in,  giving  the  facts  that  their  sorrow  and  despair  is  terrible  in 
proportion  to  the  nervous  strain  of  their  tradition  of  repression, 
and  that  suicide  is  by  no  means  unknown.  I  tried  bringing 
that  fact  in,  as  part  of  the  conversation  with  Cousin  Horace, 
but  it  never  fused  with  the  rest  there,  "  stayed  on  top  of  the 
page  "  as  bad  sentences  will  do,  never  sank  in,  and  always  made 
the  disagreeable  impression  on  me  that  a  false  intonation  in  an 
actor's  voice  does.  So  it  came  out  from  there.  I  tried  putting 
it  in  Ev'leen  Ann's  mouth,  in  a  carefully  arranged  form,  but  it 
was  so  shockingly  out  of  character  there,  that  it  was  snatched 
out  at  once.  There  I  hung  over  the  manuscript  with  that  nec 
essary  fact  in  my  hand  and  no  place  to  lay  it  down.  Finally 
I  perceived  a  possible  opening  for  it,  where  it  now  is  in  the 


HOW  "FLINT  AND  FIRE"  STARTED          219 

story,  and  squeezing  it  in  there  discontentedly  left  it,  for  I 
still  think  it  only  inoffensively  and  not  well  placed. 

Then  there  is  the  traditional,  obvious  revision  for  sugges- 
tiveness,  such  as  the  recurrent  mention  of  the  mountain  brook 
at  the  beginning  of  each  of  the  first  scenes;  revision  for  ordi 
nary  sense,  in  the  first  draught  I  had  honeysuckle  among  the 
scents  on  the  darkened  porch,  whereas  honeysuckle  does  not 
bloom  in  Vermont  till  late  June;  revision  for  movement  to  get 
the  narrator  rapidly  from  her  bed  to  the  brook;  for  sound,  sense 
proportion,  even  grammar  .  .  .  and  always  interwoven  with 
these  mechanical  revisions  recurrent  intense  visualizations  of 
the  scenes.  This  is  the  mental  trick  which  can  be  learned,  I 
think,  by  practice  and  effort.  Personally,  although  I  never 
used  as  material  any  events  in  my  own  intimate  life,  I  can  write 
nothing  if  I  cannot  achieve  these  very  definite,  very  complete 
visualizations  of  the  scenes;  which  means  that  I  can  write  noth 
ing  at  all  about  places,  people  or  phases  of  life  which  I  do  not 
intimately  know,  down  to  the  last  detail.  If  my  life  depended 
on  it,  it  does  not  seem  to  me  I  could  possibly  write  a  story 
about  Siberian  hunters  or  East-side  factory  hands  without  hav 
ing  lived  long  among  them.  Now  the  story  was  what  one 
calls  "  finished,"  and  I  made  a  clear  copy,  picking  my  way  with 
difficulty  among  the  alterations,  the  scratched-out  passages, 
and  the  cued-in  paragraphs,  the  inserted  pages,  the  re-arranged 
phrases.  As  I  typed,  the  interest  and  pleasure  in  the  story 
lasted  just  through  that  process.  It  still  seemed  pretty  good 
to  me,  the  wedding  still  touched  me,  the  whimsical  ending  still 
amused  me. 

But  on  taking  up  the  legible  typed  copy  and  beginning  to 
glance  rapidly  over  it,  I  felt  fall  over  me  the  black  shadow 
of  that  intolerable  reaction  which  is  enough  to  make  any  author 
abjure  his  calling  for  ever.  By  the  time  I  had  reached  the  end, 
the  full  misery  was  there,  the  heart-sick,  helpless  consciousness 
of  failure.  What!  I  had  had  the  presumption  to  try  to  trans- 


220  AMERICANS  ALL 

late  into  words,  and  make  others  feel  a  thrill  of  sacred  living 
human  feeling,  that  should  not  be  touched  save  by  worthy 
hands.  And  what  had  I  produced?  A  trivial,  paltry,  com 
plicated  tale,  with  certain  cheaply  ingenious  devices  in  it.  I 
heard  again  the  incommunicable  note  of  profound  emotion  in 
the  old  man's  voice,  suffered  again  with  his  sufferings;  and 
those  little  black  marks  on  white  paper  lay  dead,  dead  in  my 
hands.  What  horrible  people  second-rate  authors  were!  They 
ought  to  be  prohibited  by  law  from  sending  out  their  carica 
tures  of  life.  I  would  never  write  again.  All  that  effort, 
enough  to  have  achieved  a  master-piece  it  seemed  at  the 
time  .  .  .  and  this,  this,  for  result! 

From  the  subconscious  depths  of  long  experience  came  up 
the  cynical,  slightly  contemptuous  consolation,  "  You  know  this 
never  lasts.  You  always  throw  this  same  fit,  and  get  over  it." 

So,  suffering  from  really  acute  humiliation  and  unhappiness, 
I  went  out  hastily  to  weed  a  flower-bed. 

And  sure  enough,  the  next  morning,  after  a  long  night's 
sleep,  I  felt  quite  rested,  calm,  and  blessedly  matter-of-fact. 
"  Flint  and  Fire  "  seemed  already  very  far  away  and  vague, 
and  the  question  of  whether  it  was  good  or  bad,  not  very  im 
portant  or  interesting,  like  the  chart  of  your  temperature  in 
a  fever  now  gone  by. 


DOROTHY  CANFIELD 

Dorothy  Canfield  grew  up  in  an  atmosphere  of  books  and 
learning.  Her  father,  James  H.  Canfield,  was  president  of 
Kansas  University,  at  Lawrence,  and  there  Dorothy  was  born, 
Feb.  17,  1879.  She  attended  the  high  school  at  Lawrence,  and 
became  friends  with  a  young  army  officer  who  was  teaching 
at  the  near-by  Army  post,  and  who  taught  her  to  ride  horse 
back.  In  1917  when  the  first  American  troops  entered  Paris, 
Dorothy  Canfield,  who  had  gone  to  Paris  to  help  in  war  work, 
again  met  this  army  officer,  General  John  J.  Pershing. 

But  this  is  getting  ahead  of  the  story.  Dr.  Canfield  was 
called  from  Kansas  to  become  president  of  Ohio  State  Uni 
versity,  and  later  to  be  librarian  at  Columbia  University,  and 
so  it  happened  that  Dorothy  took  her  college  course  at  Ohio 
State  and  her  graduate  work  at  Columbia.  She  specialized  in 
Romance  languages,  and  took  her  degree  as  Doctor  of  Phil 
osophy  in  1904.  In  connection  with  Professor  Carpenter  of 
Columbia  she  wrote  a  text  book  on  rhetoric.  But  books  did 
not  absorb  quite  all  of  her  time,  for  the  next  item  in  her 
biography  is  her  marriage  to  John  R.  Fisher,  who  had  been  the 
captain  of  the  Columbia  football  team.  They  made  their  home 
at  Arlington,  Vermont,  with  frequent  visits  to  Europe.  In 
1911-1912  they  spent  the  winter  in  Rome.  Here  they  came  to 
know  Madame  Montessori,  famous  for  developing  a  new 
system  of  training  children.  Dorothy  Canfield  spent  many 
days  at  the  "House  of  Childhood,"  studying  the  methods  of 
this  gifted  teacher.  The  result  of  this  was  a  book,  A  Montes 
sori  Mother,  in  which  the  system  was  adapted  to  the  needs  of 
American  children. 

The  Squirrel  Cage,  published  in  1912,  was  a  study  of  an  un- 

221 


222  AMERICANS  ALL 

happy  marriage.  The  book  was  favorably  received  by  the 
critics,  but  found  only  a  moderately  wide  public.  A  second 
novel,  The  Bent  Twig,  had  college  life  as  its  setting;  the  chief 
character  was  the  daughter  of  a  professor  in  a  Middle  Western 
university.  Meantime  she  had  been  publishing  in  magazines  a 
number  of  short  stories  dealing  with  various  types  of  New  Eng 
land  country  people,  and  in  1916  these  were  gathered  into  a 
volume  with  the  title  Hillsboro  People.  This  book  met  with  a 
wide  acceptance,  not  only  in  this  country  but  in  France,  where, 
like  her  other  books,  it  was  quickly  translated  and  published. 
"  Flint  and  Fire  "  is  taken  from  this  book.  The  Real  Motive, 
another  book  of  short  stories,  and  Understood  Betsy,  a  book  for 
younger  readers,  were  her  next  publications. 

Meantime  the  Great  War  had  come,  and  its  summons  was 
heard  in  their  quiet  mountain  home.  Mr.  Fisher  went  to 
France  with  the  Ambulance  Corps;  his  wife  as  a  war-relief 
worker.  A  letter  from  a  friend  thus  described  her  work: 

She  has  gone  on  doing  a  prodigious  amount  of  work.  First 
running,  almost  entirely  alone,  the  work  for  soldiers  blinded  in 
battle,  editing  a  magazine  for  them,  running  the  presses,  often  with 
her  own  hands,  getting  books  written  for  them ;  all  the  time  looking 
out  for  refugees  and  personal  cases  that  came  under  her  attention: 
caring  for  children  from  the  evacuated  portions  of  France,  organ 
izing  work  for  them,  and  establishing  a  Red  Cross  hospital  for 
them. 

Out  of  the  fullness  of  these  experiences  she  wrote  her  next 
book,  Home  Fires  in  France,  which  at  once  took  rank  as  one 
of  the  most  notable  pieces  of  literature  inspired  by  the  war.  It 
is  in  the  form  of  short  stories,  but  only  the  form  is  fiction:  it 
is  a  perfectly  truthful  portrayal  of  the  French  women  and  of 
some  Americans  who,  far  back  of  the  trenches,  kept  up  the  life 
of  a  nation  when  all  its  people  were  gone.  It  reveals  the  soul 
of  the  French  people.  The  Day  of  Glory,  her  latest  book,  is 
a  series  of  further  impressions  of  the  war  in  France. 


DOROTHY  CANFIELD  223 

It  is  not  often  that  an  author  takes  us  into  his  workshop 
and  lets  us  see  just  how  his  stories  are  written.  The  preceding 
account  of  Dorothy  Canfield's  literary  methods  was  written 
especially  for  this  book. 


DUSKY  AMERICANS 


Most  stories  of  Negro  life  fall  into  one  of  two  groups. 
There  is  the  story  of  the  Civil  War  period,  which  pictures 
the  "  darky  "  on  the  old  plantation,  devoted  to  "  young  Massa  " 
or  "  old  Miss," — the  Negro  of  slavery.  Then  there  are  stories 
of  recent  times  in  which  the  Negro  is  used  purely  for  comic 
effect,  a  sort  of  minstrel-show  character.  Neither  of  these  is 
the  Negro  of  to-day.  A  truer  picture  is  found  in  the  stories 
of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar.  The  following  story  is  from  his 
FOLKS  FROM  DIXIE. 


THE  ORDEAL  AT  MT.  HOPE 

BY 

PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 

"  AND  this  is  Mt.  Hope,"  said  the  Rev.  Howard  Dokesbury  to 
himself  as  he  descended,  bag  in  hand,  from  the  smoky,  dingy 
coach,  or  part  of  a  coach,  which  was  assigned  to  his  people,  and 
stepped  upon  the  rotten  planks  of  the  station  platform.  The 
car  he  had  just  left  was  not  a  palace,  nor  had  his  reception  by 
his  fellow-passengers  or  his  intercourse  with  them  been  of  such 
cordial  nature  as  to  endear  them  to  him.  But  he  watched 
the  choky  little  engine  with  its  three  black  cars  wind  out  of 
sight  with  a  look  as  regretful  as  if  he  were  witnessing  the  de 
parture  of  his  dearest  friend.  Then  he  turned  his  attention 
again  to  his  surroundings,  and  a  sigh  welled  up  from  his 
heart.  "  And  this  is  Mt.  Hope,"  he  repeated.  A  note  in  his 
voice  indicated  that  he  fully  appreciated  the  spirit  of  keen 
irony  in  which  the  place  had  been  named. 

The  color  scheme  of  the  picture  that  met  his  eyes  was  in 
dingy  blacks  and  grays.  The  building  that  held  the  ticket, 
telegraph,  and  train  despatchers'  offices  was  a  miserably  old 
ramshackle  affair,  standing  well  in  the  foreground  of  this  scene 
of  gloom  and  desolation.  Its  windows  were  so  coated  with 
smoke  and  grime  that  they  seemed  to  have  been  painted  over 
in  order  to  secure  secrecy  within.  Here  and  there  a  lazy  cur 
lay  drowsily  snapping  at  the  flies,  and  at  the  end  of  the  sta 
tion,  perched  on  boxes  or  leaning  against  the  wall,  making  a 
living  picture  of  equal  laziness,  stood  a  group  of  idle  Negroes 
exchanging  rude  badinage  with  their  white  counterparts  across 
the  street. 

After  a  while  this  bantering  interchange  would  grow  more 

227 


228  AMERICANS  ALL 

keen  and  personal,  a  free-for-all  friendly  fight  would  follow,  and 
the  newspaper  correspondent  in  that  section  would  write  it  up 
as  a  "  race  war."  But  this  had  not  happened  yet  that  day. 

"  This  is  Mt.  Hope,"  repeated  the  new-comer;  "  this  is  the 
field  of  my  labors." 

Rev.  Howard  Dokesbury,  as  may  already  have  been  inferred, 
was  a  Negro, — there  could  be  no  mistake  about  that.  The 
deep  dark  brown  of  his  skin,  the  rich  over- fullness  of  his  lips, 
and  the  close  curl  of  his  short  black  hair  were  evidences  that 
admitted  of  no  argument.  He  was  a  finely  proportioned,  stal 
wart-looking  man,  with  a  general  air  of  self-possession  and 
self-sufficiency  in  his  manner.  There  was  firmness  in  the  set 
of  his  lips.  A  reader  of  character  would  have  said  of  him, 
"  Here  is  a  man  of  solid  judgement,  careful  in  deliberation, 
prompt  in  execution,  and  decisive." 

It  was  the  perception  in  him  of  these  very  qualities  which 
had  prompted  the  authorities  of  the  little  college  where  he  had 
taken  his  degree  and  received  his  theological  training,  to  urge 
him  to  go  among  his  people  at  the  South,  and  there  to  exert 
his  powers  for  good  where  the  field  was  broad  and  the  laborers 
few. 

Born  of  Southern  parents  from  whom  he  had  learned  many 
of  the  superstitions  and  traditions  of  the  South,  Howard  Dokes 
bury  himself  had  never  before  been  below  Mason  and  Dixon's 
line.  But  with  a  confidence  born  of  youth  and  a  consciousness 
of  personal  power,  he  had  started  South  with  the  idea  that  he 
knew  the  people  with  whom  he  had  to  deal,  and  was  equipped 
with  the  proper  weapons  to  cope  with  their  shortcomings. 

But  as  he  looked  around  upon  the  scene  which  now  met  his 
eye,  a  doubt  arose  in  his  mind.  He  picked  up  his  bag  with  a 
sigh,  and  approached  a  man  who  had  been  standing  apart  from 
the  rest  of  the  loungers  and  regarding  him  with  indolent  in- 
tentness. 

"  Could  you  direct  me  to  the  house  of  Stephen  Gray?  " 
asked  the  minister. 


THE  ORDEAL  AT  MT.  HOPE  229 

The  interrogated  took  time  to  change  his  position  from  left 
foot  to  right  and  shift  his  quid,  before  he  drawled  forth,  "  I 
reckon  you's  de  new  Mefdis  preachah,  huh?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Howard,  in  the  most  conciliatory  tone  he 
could  command,  "  and  I  hope  I  find  in  you  one  of  my  flock." 

"  No,  suh,  I's  a  Babtist  myse'f.  I  wa'n't  raised  up  no 
place  erroun'  Mt.  Hope;  I'm  nachelly  f'om  way  up  in  Adams 
County.  Dey  jes'  sont  me  down  hyeah  to  fin'  you  an'  tek  you 
up  to  Steve's.  Steve,  he's  workin'  to-day  an'  couldn't  come 
down." 

He  laid  particular  stress  upon  the  "  to-day,"  as  if  Steve's 
spell  of  activity  were  not  an  every-day  occurrence. 

"  Is  it  far  from  here?  "  asked  Dokesbury. 

"  'T  ain't  mo'  'n  a  mile  an'  a  ha'f  by  de  shawt  cut." 

"  Well,  then,  let's  take  the  short  cut,  by  all  means,"  said  the 
preacher. 

They  trudged  along  for  a  while  in  silence,  and  then  the 
young  man  asked,  "  What  do  you  men  about  here  do  mostly 
for  a  living?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  we  does  odd  jobs,  we  saws  an'  splits  wood  an' 
totes  bundles,  an'  some  of  'em  raises  gyahden,  but  mos'  of  us, 
we  fishes.  De  fish  bites  an'  we  ketches  'em.  Sometimes  we 
eats  'em  an'  sometimes  we  sells  'em;  a  string  o'  fish'll  bring 
a  peck  o'  co'n  any  time." 

"  And  is  that  all  you  do?  " 

"  'Bout." 

"Why,  I  don't  see  how  you  live  that  way." 

"  Oh,  we  lives  all  right,"  answered  the  man ;  "  we  has  plenty 
to  eat  an'  drink,  an'  clothes  to  wear,  an'  some  place  to  stay. 
I  reckon  folks  ain't  got  much  use  fu'  miffin'  mo'." 

Dokesbury  sighed.  Here  indeed  was  virgin  soil  for  his  minis 
terial  labors.  His  spirits  were  not  materially  raised  when, 
some  time  later,  he  came  in  sight  of  the  house  which  was  to  be 
his  abode.  To  be  sure,  it  was  better  than  most  of  the  houses 
which  he  had  seen  in  the  Negro  part  of  Mt.  Hope;  but  even 


230  AMERICANS  ALL 

at  that  it  was  far  from  being  good  or  comfortable-looking. 
It  was  small  and  mean  in  appearance.  The  weather  boarding 
was  broken,  and  in  some  places  entirely  fallen  away,  showing  the 
great  unhewn  logs  beneath ;  while  off  the  boards  that  remained 
the  whitewash  had  peeled  in  scrofulous  spots. 

The  minister's  guide  went  up  to  the  closed  door,  and  rapped 
loudly  with  a  heavy  stick. 

"  G'  'way  f'om  dah,  an'  quit  you'  foolin',"  came  in  a  large 
voice  from  within. 

The  guide  grinned,  and  rapped  again.  There  was  a  sound 
of  shuffling  feet  and  the  pushing  back  of  a  chair,  and  then  the 
same  voice  asking:  "  I  bet  I'll  mek  you  git  away  f'om  dat  do'." 

"  Dat's  A'nt  Ca'line,"  the  guide  said,  and  laughed. 

The  door  was  flung  back  as  quickly  as  its  worn  hinges  and 
sagging  bottom  would  allow,  and  a  large  body  surmounted  by 
a  face  like  a  big  round  full  moon  presented  itself  in  the  open 
ing.  A  broomstick  showed  itself  aggressively  in  one  fat  shiny 
hand. 

"  It's  you,  Tom  Scott,  is  it — you  trif'nin' "  and  then, 

catching  sight  of  the  stranger,  her  whole  manner  changed,  and 
she  dropped  the  broomstick  with  an  embarrassed  "  'Scuse  me, 
suh." 

Tom  chuckled  all  over  as  he  said,  "  A'nt  Ca'line,  dis  is  yo' 
new  preachah." 

The  big  black  face  lighted  up  with  a  broad  smile  as  the  old 
woman  extended  her  hand  and  enveloped  that  of  the  young 
minister's. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said.  "  I's  mighty  glad  to  see  you — that 
no- 'count  Tom  come  put'  nigh  mekin'  me  'spose  myse'f ."  Then 
turning  to  Tom,  she  exclaimed  with  good-natured  severity, 
"  An'  you  go  'long,  you  scoun'll  you!  " 

The  preacher  entered  the  cabin — it  was  hardly  more — and 
seated  himself  in  the  rush-bottomed  chair  which  "  A'nt 
Ca'line  "  had  been  industriously  polishing  with  her  apron. 

"  An'  now,  Brothah " 


THE  ORDEAL  AT  MT.  HOPE  231 

"  Dokesbury,"  supplemented  the  young  man. 

"  Brothah  Dokesbury,  I  jes'  want  you  to  mek  yo'se'f  at  home 
right  erway .  I  know  you  ain't  use  to  ouah  ways  down  hyeah ; 
but  you  jes'  got  to  set  in  an'  git  ust  to  'em.  You  mus'n'  feel 
bad  ef  things  don't  go  yo'  way  f'om  de  ve'y  fust.  Have  you  got 
a  mammy?  " 

The  question  was  very  abrupt,  and  a  lump  suddenly  jumped 
up  in  Dokesbury 's  throat  and  pushed  the  water  into  his  eyes. 
He  did  have  a  mother  away  back  there  at  home.  She  was  all 
alone,  and  he  was  her  heart  and  the  hope  of  her  life. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I've  got  a  little  mother  up  there  in  Ohio." 

"Well,  I's  gwine  to  be  yo'  mothah  down  hyeah;  dat  is,  ef 
I  ain't  too  rough  an'  common  fu'  you." 

"  Hush!  "  exclaimed  the  preacher,  and  he  got  up  and  took 
the  old  lady's  hand  in  both  of  his  own.  "  You  shall  be  my 
mother  down  here;  you  shall  help  me,  as  you  have  done  to 
day.  I  feel  better  already." 

"  I  knowed  you  would,"  and  the  old  face  beamed  on  the 
young  one.  "  An'  now  jes'  go  out  de  do'  dah  an'  wash  yo' 
face.  Dey's  a  pan  an'  soap  an'  watah  right  dah,  an'  hyeah's  a 
towel;  den  you  kin  go  right  into  yo'  room,  fu'  I  knows  you 
want  to  be  erlone  fu'  a  while.  I'll  fix  yo'  suppah  while  you 
rests." 

He  did  as  he  was  bidden.  On  a  rough  bench  outside  the 
door,  he  found  a  basin  and  a  bucket  of  water  with  a  tin  dipper 
in  it.  To  one  side,  in  a  broken  saucer,  lay  a  piece  of  coarse 
soap.  The  facilities  for  copious  ablutions  were  not  abundant, 
but  one  thing  the  minister  noted  with  pleasure:  the  towel, 
which  was  rough  and  hurt  his  skin,  was,  nevertheless,  scrupu 
lously  clean.  He  went  to  his  room  feeling  fresher  and  better, 
and  although  he  found  the  place  little  and  dark  and  warm, 
it  too  was  clean,  and  a  sense  of  its  homeness  began  to  take 
possession  of  him. 

The  room  was  off  the  main  living-room  into  which  he  had 
been  first  ushered.  It  had  one  small  window  that  opened  out 


232  AMERICANS  ALL 

on  a  fairly  neat  yard.  A  table  with  a  chair  before  it  stood 
beside  the  window,  and  across  the  room — if  the  three  feet 
of  space  which  intervened  could  be  called  u  across  " — stood  the 
little  bed  with  its  dark  calico  quilt  and  white  pillows.  There 
was  no  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  the  absence  of  a  washstand 
indicated  very  plainly  that  the  occupant  was  expected  to  wash 
outside.  The  young  minister  knelt  for  a  few  minutes  beside 
the  bed,  and  then  rising  cast  himself  into  the  chair  to  rest. 

It  was  possibly  half  an  hour  later  when  his  partial  nap  was 
broken  in  upon  by  the  sound  of  a  gruff  voice  from  without 
saying,  "  He's  hyeah,  is  he — oomph!  Well,  what's  he  ac'  lak? 
Want  us  to  git  down  on  ouah  knees  an'  crawl  to  him?  If 
he  do,  I  reckon  he'll  fin'  dat  Mt.  Hope  ain't  de  place  fo' 
him." 

The  minister  did  not  hear  the  answer,  which  was  in  a  low 
voice  and  came,  he  conjectured,  from  Aunt  "  Ca'line  ";  but  the 
gruff  voice  subsided,  and  there  was  the  sound  of  footsteps  going 
out  of  the  room.  A  tap  came  on  the  preacher's  door,  and  he 
opened  it  to  the  old  woman.  She  smiled  reassuringly. 

"  Dat'  uz  my  oP  man,"  she  said.  "  I  sont  him  out  to  git 
some  wood,  so's  I'd  have  time  to  post  you.  Don't  you  mind 
him;  he's  lots  mo'  ba'k  dan  bite.  He's  one  o'  dese  little  yaller 
men,  an'  you  know  dey  kin  be  powahful  contra'y  when  dey 
sets  dey  hai'd  to  it.  But  jes'  you  treat  him  nice  an'  don't 
let  on,  an'  I'll  be  boun'  you'll  bring  him  erroun'  in  little  er  no 
time." 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Dokesbury  received  this  advice  with  some 
misgiving.  Albeit  he  had  assumed  his  pleasantest  manner  when, 
after  his  return  to  the  living-room,  the  little  "  yaller  "  man 
came  through  the  door  with  his  bundle  of  wood. 

He  responded  cordially  to  Aunt  Caroline's,  "  Dis  is  my  hus 
band,  Brothah  Dokesbury,"  and  heartjly  shook  his  host's  re 
luctant  hand. 

"  I  hope  I  find  you  well,  Brother  Gray,"  he  said. 

"  Moder't,  jes'  moder't,"  was  the  answer. 


THE  ORDEAL  AT  MT.  HOPE  233 

"  Come  to  suppah  now,  bofe  o'  you,'"  said  the  old  lady, 
and  they  all  sat  down  to  the  evening  meal  of  crisp  bacon, 
well-fried  potatoes,  egg-pone,  and  coffee. 

The  young  man  did  his  best  to  be  agreeable,  but  it  was 
rather  discouraging  to  receive  only  gruff  monosyllabic  rejoinders 
to  his  most  interesting  observations.  But  the  cheery  old  wife 
came  bravely  to  the  rescue,  and  the  minister  was  continually 
floated  into  safety  on  the  flow  of  her  conversation.  Now  and 
then,  as  he  talked,  he  could  catch  a  stealthy  upflashing  of 
Stephen  Gray's  eye,  as  suddenly  lowered  again,  that  told  him 
that  the  old  man  was  listening.  But  as  an  indication  that 
they  would  get  on  together,  the  supper,  taken  as  a  whole,  was 
not  a  success.  The  evening  that  followed  proved  hardly  more 
fortunate.  About  the  only  remarks  that  could  be  elicited 
from  the  "  little  yaller  man  "  were  a  reluctant  "  oomph  "  or 
"  oomph-uh." 

It  was  just  before  going  to  bed  that,  after  a  period  of  reflec 
tion,  Aunt  Caroline  began  slowly:  "  We  got  a  son  " — her  hus 
band  immediately  bristled  up  and  his  eyes  flashed,  but  the 
old  woman  went  on;  "  he  named  'Lias,  an'  we  thinks  a  heap  o' 
'Lias,  we  does;  but — "  the  old  man  had  subsided,  but  he 
bristled  up  again  at  the  word — "  he  ain't  jes'  whut  we  want  him 
to  be."  Her  husband  opened  his  mouth  as  if  to  speak  in  de 
fense  of  his  son,  but  was  silent  in  satisfaction  at  his  wife's 
explanation:  "  'Lias  ain't  bad;  he  jes'  ca'less.  Sometimes  he 
stays  at  home,  but  right  sma't  o'  de  time  he  stays  down  at  " — 
she  looked  at  her  husband  and  hesitated — "  at  de  colo'ed 
s'loon.  We  don't  lak  dat.  It  ain't  no  fitten  place  fu'  him. 
But  'Lias  ain't  bad,  he  jes'  ca'less,  an'  me  an'  de  oP  man  we 
'membahs  him  in  ouah  pra'ahs,  an'  I  jes'  t'ought  I'd  ax  you 
to  'membah  him  too,  Brothah  Dokesbury." 

The  minister  felt  the  old  woman's  pleading  look  and  the 
husband's  intense  gaze  upon  his  face,  and  suddenly  there  came 
to  him  an  intimate  sympathy  in  their  trouble  and  with  it  an 
unexpected  strength. 


234  AMERICANS  ALL 

"  There  is  no  better  time  than  now,"  he  said,  "  to  take  his 
case  to  the  Almighty  Power;  let  us  pray." 

Perhaps  it  was  the  same  prayer  he  had  prayed  many  times 
before;  perhaps  the  words  of  supplication  and  the  plea  for 
light  and  guidance  were  the  same;  but  somehow  to  the  young 
man  kneeling  there  amid  those  humble  surroundings,  with  the 
sorrow  of  these  poor  ignorant  people  weighing  upon  his  heart, 
it  seemed  very  different.  It  came  more  fervently  from  his 
lips,  and  the  words  had  a  deeper  meaning.  When  he  arose, 
there  was  a  warmth  at  his  heart  just  the  like  of  which  he  had 
never  before  experienced. 

Aunt  Caroline  blundered  up  from  her  knees,  saying,  as  she 
wiped  her  eyes,  "  Blessed  is  dey  dat  mou'n,  fu'  dey  shall  be 
comfo'ted."  The  old  man,  as  he  turned  to  go  to  bed,  shook 
the  young  man's  hand  warmly  and  in  silence;  but  there  was 
a  moisture  in  the  old  eyes  that  told  the  minister  that  his 
plummet  of  prayer  had  sounded  the  depths. 

Alone  in  his  own  room  Howard  Dokesbury  sat  down  to 
study  the  situation  in  which  he  had  been  placed.  Had  his 
thorough  college  training  anticipated  specifically  any  such  cir 
cumstance  as  this?  After  all,  did  he  know  his  own  people? 
Was  it  possible  that  they  could  be  so  different  from  what 
he  had  seen  and  known?  He  had  always  been  such  a  loyal 
Negro,  so  proud  of  his  honest  brown;  but  had  he  been  mis 
taken?  Was  he,  after  all,  different  from  the  majority  of  the 
people  with  whom  he  was  supposed  to  have  all  thoughts,  feel 
ings,  and  emotions  in  common? 

These  and  other  questions  he  asked  himself  without  being 
able  to  arrive  at  any  satisfactory  conclusion.  He  did  not  go 
to  sleep  soon  after  retiring,  and  the  night  brought  many 
thoughts.  The  next  day  would  be  Saturday.  The  ordeal  had 
already  begun, — now  there  were  twenty-four  hours  between  him 
and  the  supreme  trial.  What  would  be  its  outcome?  There 
were  moments  when  he  felt,  as  every  man,  howsoever  brave, 
must  feel  at  times,  that  he  would  like  to  shift  all  his  respon- 


THE  ORDEAL  AT  MT.  HOPE  235 

sibilities  and  go  away  from  the  place  that  seemed  destined  to 
tax  his  powers  beyond  their  capability  of  endurance.  What 
(could  he  do  for  the  inhabitants  of  Mt.  Hope?  What  was 
required  of  him  to  do?  Ever  through  his  mind  ran  that  world- 
old  question:  "  Am  I  my  brother's  keeper?  "  He  had  never 
asked,  "  Are  these  people  my  brothers?  " 

He  was  up  early  the  next  morning,  and  as  soon  as  breakfast 
was  done,  he  sat  down  to  add  a  few  touches  to  the  sermon  he 
had  prepared  as  his  introduction.  It  was  not  the  first  time 
that  he  had  retouched  it  and  polished  it  up  here  and  there. 
Indeed,  he  had  taken  some  pride  in  it.  But  as  he  read  it 
over  that  day,  it  did  not  sound  to  him  as  it  had  sounded 
before.  It  appeared  flat  and  without  substance.  After  a  while 
he  laid  it  aside,  telling  himself  that  he  was  nervous  and  it  was 
on  this  account  that  he  could  not  see  matters  as  he  did  in  his 
calmer  moments.  He  told  himself,  too,  that  he  must  not  again 
take  up  the  offending  discourse  until  time  to  use  it,  lest  the 
discovery  of  more  imaginary  flaws  should  so  weaken  his 
confidence  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  deliver  it  with 
effect. 

In  order  better  to  keep  his  resolve,  he  put  on  his  hat  and 
went  out  for  a  walk  through  the  streets  of  Mt.  Hope.  He  did 
not  find  an  encouraging  prospect  as  he  went  along.  The 
Negroes  whom  he  met  viewed  him  with  ill-favor,  and  the  whites 
who  passed  looked  on  him  with  unconcealed  distrust  and  con 
tempt.  He  began  to  feel  lost,  alone,  and  helpless.  The  squalor 
and  shiftlessness  which  were  plainly  in  evidence  about  the 
houses  which  he  saw  filled  him  with  disgust  and  a  dreary  hope 
lessness. 

He  passed  vacant  lots  which  lay  open  and  inviting  children 
to  healthful  play;  but  instead  of  marbles  or  leap-frog  or  ball, 
he  found  little  boys  in  ragged  knickerbockers  huddled  together 
on  the  ground,  "  shooting  craps  "  with  precocious  avidity  and 
quarreling  over  the  pennies  that  made  the  pitiful  wagers.  He 
heard  glib  profanity  rolling  from  the  lips  of  children  who 


236  AMERICANS  ALL 

should  have  been  stumbling  thcough  baby  catechisms;  and 
his  heart  ached  for  them. 

He  would  have  turned  and  gone  back  to  his  room,  but  the 
sound  of  shouts,  laughter,  and  the  turn-turn  of  a  musical  instru 
ment  drew  him  on  down  the  street.  At  the  turn  of  a  corner, 
the  place  from  which  the  noise  emanated  met  his  eyes.  It 
was  a  rude  frame  building,  low  and  unpainted.  The  panes  in 
its  windows  whose  places  had  not  been  supplied  by  sheets  of 
tin  were  daubed  a  dingy  red.  Numerous  kegs  and  bottles  on 
the  outside  attested  the  nature  of  the  place.  The  front  door 
was  open,  but  the  interior  was  concealed  by  a  gaudy  curtain 
stretched  across  the  entrance  within.  Over  the  door  was  the 
inscription,  in  straggling  characters,  "Sander's  Place;  "  and 
when  he  saw  half-a-dozen  Negroes  enter,  the  minister  knew 
instantly  that  he  now  beheld  the  colored  saloon  which  was  the 
frequenting-place  of  his  hostess's  son  'Lias;  and  he  wondered, 
if,  as  the  mother  said,  her  boy  was  not  bad,  how  anything 
good  could  be  preserved  in  such  a  place  of  evil. 

The  cries  of  boisterous  laughter  mingled  with  the  strum 
ming  of  the  banjo  and  the  shuffling  of  feet  told  him  that  they 
were  engaged  in  one  of  their  rude  hoe-down  dances.  He  had 
not  passed  a  dozen  paces  beyond  the  door  when  the  music 
was  suddenly  stopped,  the  sound  of  a  quick  blow  followed, 
then  ensued  a  scuffle,  and  a  young  fellow  half  ran,  half  fell 
through  the  open  door.  He  was  closely  followed  by  a  heavily 
built  ruffian  who  was  striking  him  as  he  ran.  The  young  fellow 
was  very  much  the  weaker  and  slighter  of  the  two,  and  was 
suffering  great  punishment.  In  an  instant  all  the  preacher's 
sense  of  justice  was  stung  into  sudden  life.  Just  as  the  brute 
was  about  to  give  his  victim  a  blow  that  would  have  sent 
him  into  the  gutter,  he  felt  his  arm  grasped  in  a  detaining  hold 
and  heard  a  commanding  voice, — "  Stop!  " 

He  turned  with  increased  fury  upon  this  meddler,  but  his 
other  wrist  was  caught  and  held  in  a  vise-like  grip.  For  a 
moment  the  two  men  looked  into  each  other's  eyes.  Hot  words 


THE  ORDEAL  AT  MT.  HOPE  237 

rose  to  the  young  man's  lips,  but  he  choked  them  back.  Until 
this  moment  he  had  deplored  the  possession  of  a  spirit  so  easily 
fired  that  it  had  been  a  test  of  his  manhood  to  keep  from 
"slugging"  on  the  football  field;  now  he  was  glad  of  it. 
He  did  not  attempt  to  strike  the  man,  but  stood  holding  his 
arms  and  meeting  the  brute  glare  with  manly  flashing  eyes. 
Either  the  natural  cowardice  of  the  bully  or  something  in  his 
new  opponent's  face  had  quelled  the  big  fellow's  spirit,  and 
he  said  doggedly,  "  Lemme  go.  I  wasn't  a-go'n  to  kill  him  no 
how,  but  ef  I  ketch  him  dancin'  with  my  gal  any  mo',  I " 

He  cast  a  glance  full  of  malice  at  his  victim,  who  stood  on  the 
pavement  a  few  feet  away,  as  much  amazed  as  the  dum- 
founded  crowd  which  thronged  the  door  of  "  Sander's  Place." 
Loosing  his  hold,  the  preacher  turned,  and,  putting  his  hand 
on  the  young  fellow's  shoulder,  led  him  away. 

For  a  time  they  walked  on  in  silence.  Dokesbury  had  to 
calm  the  tempest  in  his  breast  before  he  could  trust  his  voice. 
After  a  while  he  said:  "  That  fellow  was  making  it  pretty  hot 
for  you,  my  young  friend.  What  had  you  done  to  him?  " 

"  Nothin',"  replied  the  other.  "  I  was  jes'  dancin'  'long  an' 
not  thinkin'  'bout  him,  when  all  of  a  sudden  he  hollered  dat  I 
had  his  gal  an'  commenced  hittin'  me." 

"  He's  a  bully  and  a  coward,  or  he  would  not  have  made 
use  of  his  superior  strength  in  that  way.  What's  your  name, 
friend?  " 

"  'Lias  Gray,"  was  the  answer,  which  startled  the  minister 
into  exclaiming, — 

"What!  are  you  Aunt  Caroline's  son?  " 

"Yes,  suh,  I  sho  is;  does  you  know  my  mothah?  " 

"Why,  I'm  stopping  with  her,  and  we  were  talking  about 
you  last  night.  My  name  is  Dokesbury,  and  I  am  to  take 
charge  of  the  church  here." 

"I  thought  mebbe  you  was  a  preachah,  but  I  couldn't 
scarcely  believe  it  after  I  seen  de  way  you  held  Sam  an'  looked 
at  him." 


238  AMERICANS  ALL 

Dokesbury  laughed,  and  his  merriment  seemed  to  make  his 
companion  feel  better,  for  the  sullen,  abashed  look  left  his 
face,  and  he  laughed  a  little  himself  as  he  said:  "I  wasn't 
a-pesterin'  Sam,  but  I  tell  you  he  pestered  me  mighty." 

Dokesbury  looked  into  the  boy's  face, — he  was  hardly  more 
than  a  boy, — lit  up  as  it  was  by  a  smile,  and  concluded  that 
Aunt  Caroline  was  right.  'Lias  might  be  "  ca'less,"  but  he 
wasn't  a  bad  boy.  The  face  was  too  open  and  the  eyes  too 
honest  for  that.  'Lias  wasn't  bad;  but  environment  does  so 
much,  and  he  would  be  if  something  were  not  done  for  him. 
Here,  then,  was  work  for  a  pastor's  hands. 

"  You'll  walk  on  home  with  me,  'Lias,  won't  you?  " 

"  I  reckon  I  mout  ez  well,"  replied  the  boy.  "  I  don't  stay 
erroun'  home  ez  much  ez  I  oughter." 

"  You'll  be  around  more,  of  course,  now  that  I  am  there. 
It  will  be  so  much  less  lonesome  for  two  young  people  than 
for  one.  Then,  you  can  be  a  great  help  to  me,  too." 

The  preacher  did  not  look  down  to  see  how  wide  his  listener's 
eyes  grew  as  he  answered:  "  Oh,  I  ain't  fittin'  to  be  no  he'p 
to  you,  suh.  Fust  thing,  I  ain't  nevah  got  religion,  an'  then 
I  ain't  well  larned  enough." 

"  Oh,  there  are  a  thousand  other  ways  in  which  you  can 
help,  and  I  feel  sure  that  you  will." 

"  Of  co'se,  I'll  do  de  ve'y  bes'  I  kin." 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  want  you  to  do  soon,  as  a  favor  to 
me." 

"  I  can't  go  to  de  mou'nah's  bench,"  cried  the  boy,  in  con 
sternation. 

"  And  I  don't  want  you  to,"  was  the  calm  reply. 

Another  look  of  wide-eyed  astonishment  took  in  the  preach 
er's  face.  These  were  strange  words  from  one  of  his  guild. 
But  without  noticing  the  surprise  he  had  created,  Dokesbury 
went  on:  "  What  I  want  is  that  you  will  take  me  fishing  as 
soon  as  you  can.  I  never  get  tired  of  fishing  and  I  am  anxious 
to  go  here.  Tom  Scott  says  you  fish  a  great  deal  about  here." 


THE  ORDEAL  AT  MT.  HOPE  239 

"  Why,  we  kin  go  dis  ve'y  afternoon,"  exclaimed  'Lias,  in 
relief  and  delight;  "  I's  mighty  fond  o'  fishin',  myse'f." 

"All  right;  I'm  in  your  hands  from  now  on." 

'Lias  drew  his  shoulders  up,  with  an  unconscious  motion. 
The  preacher  saw  it,  and  mentally  rejoiced.  He  felt  that  the 
first  thing  the  boy  beside  him  needed  was  a  consciousness  of 
responsibility,  and  the  lifted  shoulders  meant  progress  in  that 
direction,  a  sort  of  physical  straightening  up  to  correspond 
with  the  moral  one. 

On  seeing  her  son  walk  in  with  the  minister,  Aunt  {:  Ca'- 
line's  "  delight  was  boundless.  "  La!  Brothah  Dokesbury,"  she 
exclaimed,  "  wha'd  you  fin'  dat  scamp?  " 

"  Oh,  down  the  street  here,"  the  young  man  replied  lightly. 
"  I  got  hold  of  his  name  and  made  myself  acquainted,  so  he 
came  home  to  go  fishing  with  me." 

"  'Lias  is  pow'ful  fon'  o'  fishin',  hisse'f.  I  'low  he  kin  show 
you  some  mighty  good  places.  Cain't  you,  'Lias?  " 

"  I  reckon." 

'Lias  was  thinking.  He  was  distinctly  grateful  that  the  cir 
cumstances  of  his  meeting  with  the  minister  had  been  so  deftly 
passed  over.  But  with  a  half  idea  of  the  superior  moral  re 
sponsibility  under  which  a  man  in  Dokesbury's  position  labored, 
he  wondered  vaguely — to  put  it  in  his  own  thought-words — 
"  ef  de  preachah  hadn't  put'  nigh  lied."  However,  he  was 
willing  to  forgive  this  little  lapse  of  veracity,  if  such  it  was, 
out  of  consideration  for  the  anxiety  it  spared  his  mother. 

When  Stephen  Gray  came  in  to  dinner,  he  was  no  less  pleased 
than  his  wife  to  note  the  terms  of  friendship  on  which  the 
minister  received  his  son.  On  his  face  was  the  first  smile  that 
Dokesbury  had  seen  there,  and  he  awakened  from  his  taciturn 
ity  and  proffered  much  information  as  to  the  fishing-places 
thereabout.  The  young  minister  accounted  this  a  distinct  gain. 
Anything  more  than  a  frowning  silence  from  the  "  little  yaller 
man  "  was  gain. 

The  fishing  that  afternoon  was  particularly  good.    Catfish, 


240  AMERICANS  ALL 

chubs,  and  suckers  were  landed  in  numbers  sufficient  to  please 
the  heart  of  any  amateur  angler. 

'Lias  was  happy,  and  the  minister  was  in  the  best  of  spirits, 
for  his  charge  seemed  promising.  He  looked  on  at  the  boy's 
jovial  face,  and  laughed  within  himself;  for,  mused  he,  "  it  is 
so  much  harder  for  the  devil  to  get  into  a  cheerful  heart 
than  into  a  sullen,  gloomy  one."  By  the  time  they  were  ready 
to  go  home  Harold  Dokesbury  had  received  a  promise  from 
'Lias  to  attend  service  the  next  morning  and  hear  the  sermon. 

There  was  a  great  jollification  over  the  fish  supper  that 
night,  and  'Lias  and  the  minister  were  the  heroes  of  the  occa 
sion.  The  old  man  again  broke  his  silence,  and  recounted,  with 
infinite  dryness,  ancient  tales  of  his  prowess  with  rod  and 
line;  while  Aunt  "  Ca'line  "  told  of  famous  fish  suppers  that 
in  the  bygone  days  she  had  cooked  for  "  de  white  folks."  In 
the  midst  of  it  all,  however,  'Lias  disappeared.  No  one  had 
noticed  when  he  slipped  out,  but  all  seemed  to  become  con 
scious  of  his  absence  about  the  same  time.  The  talk  shifted, 
and  finally  simmered  into  silence. 

When  the  Rev.  Mr.  Dokesbury  went  to  bed  that  night,  his 
charge  had  not  yet  returned. 

The  young  minister  woke  early  on  the  Sabbath  morning,  and 
he  may  be  forgiven  that  the  prospect  of  the  ordeal  through 
which  he  had  to  pass  drove  his  care  for  'Lias  out  of  mind 
for  the  first  few  hours.  But  as  he  walked  to  church,  flanked 
on  one  side  by  Aunt  Caroline  in  the  stiffest  of  ginghams  and 
on  the  other  by  her  husband  stately  in  the  magnificence  of  an 
antiquated  "  Jim-swinger,"  his  mind  went  back  to  the  boy  with 
sorrow.  Where  was  he?  What  was  he  doing?  Had  the  fear 
of  a  dull  church  service  frightened  him  back  to  his  old  habits 
and  haunts?  There  was  a  new  sadness  at  the  preacher's  heart 
as  he  threaded  his  way  down  the  crowded  church  and  ascended 
the  rude  pulpit. 

The  church  was  stiflingly  hot,  and  the  morning  sun  still  beat 
relentlessly  in  through  the  plain  windows.  The  seats  were  rude 


THE  ORDEAL  AT  MT.  HOPE  241 

wooden  benches,  in  some  instances  without  backs.  To  the  right, 
filling  the  inner  corner,  sat  the  pillars  of  the  church,  stern,  grim, 
and  critical.  Opposite  them,  and,  like  them,  in  seats  at  right 
angles  to  the  main  body,  sat  the  older  sisters,  some  of  them 
dressed  with  good  old-fashioned  simplicity,  while  others  yield 
ing  to  newer  tendencies  were  gotten  up  in  gaudy  attempts  at 
finery.  In  the  rear  seats  a  dozen  or  so  much  beribboned 
mulatto  girls  tittered  and  giggled,  and  cast  bold  glances  at  the 
minister. 

The  young  man  sighed  as  he  placed  the  manuscript  of  his 
sermon  between  the  leaves  of  the  tattered  Bible.  "  And  this  is 
Mt.  Hope,"  he  was  again  saying  to  himself. 

It  was  after  the  prayer  and  in  the  midst  of  the  second  hymn 
that  a  more  pronounced  titter  from  the  back  seats  drew  his 
attention.  He  raised  his  head  to  cast  a  reproving  glance  at  the 
irreverent,  but  the  sight  that  met  his  eyes  turned  that  look  into 
one  of  horror.  'Lias  had  just  entered  the  church,  and  with 
every  mark  of  beastly  intoxication  was  staggering  up  the  aisle 
to  a  seat,  into  which  he  tumbled  in  a  drunken  heap.  The 
preacher's  soul  turned  sick  within  him,  and  his  eyes  sought 
the  face  of  the  mother  and  father.  The  old  woman  was  wiping 
her  eyes,  and  the  old  man  sat  with  his  gaze  bent  upon  the  floor, 
lines  of  sorrow  drawn  about  his  wrinkled  mouth. 

All  of  a  sudden  a  great  revulsion  of  feeling  came  over  Dokes- 
bury.  Trembling  he  rose  and  opened  the  Bible.  There  lay  his 
sermon,  polished  and  perfected.  The  opening  lines  seemed  to 
him  like  glints  from  a  bright  cold  crystal.  What  had  he  to 
say  to  these  people,  when  the  full  realization  of  human  sorrow 
and  care  and  of  human  degradation  had  just  come  to  him? 
What  had  they  to  do  with  firstlies  and  secondlies,  with  premises 
and  conclusions?  What  they  wanted  was  a  strong  hand  to  help 
them  over  the  hard  places  of  life  and  a  loud  voice  to  cheer 
them  through  the  dark.  He  closed  the  book  again  upon  his 
precious  sermon.  A  something  new  had  been  born  in  his  heart. 
He  let  his  glance  rest  for  another  instant  on  the  mother's 


242  AMERICANS  ALL 

pained  face  and  the  father's  bowed  form,  and  then  turning  to 
the  congregation  began,  "  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and 
are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest.  Take  my  yoke  upon 
you,  and  learn  of  me:  for  I  am  meek  and  lowly  in  heart:  and 
ye  shall  find  rest  unto  your  souls."  Out  of  the  fullness  of 
-uis  heart  he  spoke  unto  them.  Their  great  need  informed  his 
utterance.  He  forgot  his  carefully  turned  sentences  and  per 
fectly  rounded  periods.  He  forgot  all  save  that  here  was  the 
well-being  of  a  community  put  into  his  hands  whose  real  con 
dition  he  had  not  even  suspected  until  now.  The  situation 
wrought  him  up.  His  words  went  forth  like  winged  fire,  and 
the  emotional  people  were  moved  beyond  control.  They 
shouted,  and  clapped  their  hands,  and  praised  the  Lord  loudly. 

When  the  service  was  over,  there  was  much  gathering  about 
the  young  preacher,  and  handshaking.  Through  all  'Lias  had 
slept.  His  mother  started  toward  him;  but  the  minister 
managed  to  whisper  to  her,  "  Leave  him  to  me."  When  the 
congregation  had  passed  out,  Dokesbury  shook  'Lias.  The  boy 
woke,  partially  sobered,  and  his  face  fell  before  the  preacher's 
eyes. 

"  Come,  my  boy,  let's  go  home."  Arm  in  arm  they  went 
out  into  the  street,  where  a  number  of  scoffers  had  gathered 
to  have  a  laugh  at  the  abashed  boy;  but  Harold  Dokesbury 's 
strong  arm  steadied  his  steps,  and  something  in  his  face  checked 
the  crowd's  hilarity.  Silently  they  cleared  the  way,  and  the 
two  passed  among  them  and  went  home. 

The  minister  saw  clearly  the  things  which  he  had  to  com 
bat  in  his  community,  and  through  this  one  victim  he  deter 
mined  to  fight  the  general  evil.  The  people  with  whom  he 
had  to  deal  were  children  who  must  be  led  by  the  hand.  The 
boy  lying  in  drunken  sleep  upon  his  bed  was  no  worse  than 
the  rest  of  them.  He  was  an  epitome  of  the  evil,  as  his 
parents  were  of  the  sorrows,  of  the  place. 

He  could  not  talk  to  Elias.  He  could  not  lecture  him.  He 
would  only  be  dashing  his  words  against  the  accumulated  evil 


THE  ORDEAL  AT  MT.  HOPE  243 

of  years  of  bondage  as  the  ripples  of  a  summer  sea  beat  against 
a  stone  wall.  It  was  not  the  wickedness  of  this  boy  he  was 
fighting  or  even  the  wrong-doing  of  Mt.  Hope.  It  was  the 
aggregation  of  the  evils  of  the  fathers,  the  grandfathers,  the 
masters  and  mistresses  of  these  people.  Against  this  what 
could  talk  avail? 

The  boy  slept  on,  and  the  afternoon  passed  heavily  away. 
Aunt  Caroline  was  finding  solace  in  her  pipe,  and  Stephen  Gray 
sulked  in  moody  silence  beside  the  hearth.  Neither  of  them 
joined  their  guest  at  evening  service. 

He  went,  however.  It  was  hard  to  face  those  people  again 
after  the  events  of  the  morning.  He  could  feel  them  covertly 
nudging  each  other  and  grinning  as  he  went  up  to  the  pulpit. 
He  chided  himself  for  the  momentary  annoyance  it  caused  him. 
Were  they  not  like  so  many  naughty,  irresponsible  children? 

The  service  passed  without  unpleasantness,  save  that  he 
went  home  with  an  annoyingly  vivid  impression  of  a  yellow 
girl  with  red  ribbons  on  her  hat,  who  pretended  to  be  im 
pressed  by  his  sermon  and  made  eyes  at  him  from  behind  her 
handkerchief. 

On  the  way  to  his  room  that  night,  as  he  passed  Stephen 
Gray,  the  old  man  whispered  huskily,  "  It's  de  fus'  time  'Lias 
evah  done  dat." 

It  was  the  only  word  he  had  spoken  since  morning. 

A  sound  sleep  refreshed  Dokesbury,  and  restored  the  tone 
to  his  overtaxed  nerves.  When  he  came  out  in  the  morning, 
Elias  was  already  in  the  kitchen.  He  too  had  slept  off  his 
indisposition,  but  it  had  been  succeeded  by  a  painful  embar 
rassment  that  proved  an  effectual  barrier  to  all  intercourse 
with  him.  The  minister  talked  lightly  and  amusingly,  but 
the  boy  never  raised  his  eyes  from  his  plate,  and  only  spoke 
when  he  was  compelled  to  answer  some  direct  questions. 

Harold  Dokesbury  knew  that  unless  he  could  overcome  this 
reserve,  his  power  over  the  youth  was  gone.  He  bent  every 
effort  to  do  it. 


244  AMERICANS  ALL 

"  What  do  you  say  to  a  turn  down  the  street  with  me?  "  he 
asked  as  he  rose  from  breakfast. 

'Lias  shook  his  head. 

"  What!     You  haven't  deserted  me  already?  " 

The  older  people  had  gone  out,  but  young  Gray  looked 
furtively  about  before  he  replied:  "  You  know  I  ain't  fittin' 
to  go  out  with  you — aftah — aftah — yestiddy." 

A  dozen  appropriate  texts  rose  in  the  preacher's  mind,  but 
he  knew  that  it  was  not  a  preaching  time,  so  he  contented  him 
self  with  saying, — 

"  Oh,  get  out!    Come  along!  " 

"No,  I  cain't.  I  cain't.  I  wisht  I  could!  You  needn't 
think  Fs  ashamed,  'cause  I  ain't.  Plenty  of  'em  git  drunk,  an' 
I  don't  keer  nothin'  'bout  dat  " — this  in  a  defiant  tone. 

"  Well,  why  not  come  along  then?  " 

"  I  tell  you  I  cain't.  Don't  ax  me  no  mo'.  It  ain't  on  my 
account  I  won't  go.  It's  you." 

"  Me!     Why,  I  want  you  to  go." 

"I  know  you  does,  but  I  mustn't.  Cain't  you  see  that 
dey'd  be  glad  to  say  dat — dat  you  was  in  cahoots  wif  me  an' 
you  tuk  yo'  dram  on  de  sly?  " 

"  I  don't  care  what  they  say  so  long  as  it  isn't  true.  Are  you 
coming?  " 

"  No,  I  ain't." 

He  was  perfectly  determined,  and  Dokesbury  saw  that  there 
was  no  use  arguing  with  him.  So  with  a  resigned  "  All  right!  " 
he  strode  out  the  gate  and  up  the  street,  thinking  of  the  problem 
he  had  to  solve. 

There  was  good  in  Elias  Gray,  he  knew.  It  was  a  shame 
that  it  should  be  lost.  It  would  be  lost  unless  he  were  drawn 
strongly  away  from  the  paths  he  was  treading.  But  how  could 
it  be  done?  Was  there  no  point  in  his  mind  that  could  be 
reached  by  what  was  other  than  evil?  That  was  the  thing  to 
be  found  out.  Then  he  paused  to  ask  himself  if,  after  all,  he 
were  not  trying  to  do  too  much, — trying,  in  fact,  to  play  Provi- 


THE  ORDEAL  AT  MT.  HOPE  245 

dence  to  Elias.  He  found  himself  involuntarily  wanting  to  shift 
the  responsibility  of  planning  for  the  youth.  He  wished  that 
something  entirely  independent  of  his  intentions  would 
happen. 

Just  then  something  did  happen.  A  piece  of  soft  mud  hurled 
from  some  unknown  source  caught  the  minister  square  in  the 
chest,  and  spattered  over  his  clothes.  He  raised  his  eyes  and 
glanced  about  quickly,  but  no  one  was  in  sight.  Whoever 
the  foe  was,  he  was  securely  ambushed. 

"  Thrown  by  the  hand  of  a  man,"  mused  Dokesbury, 
"  prompted  by  the  malice  of  a  child." 

He  went  on  his  way,  finished  his  business,  and  returned  to 
the  house. 

"  La,  Brothah  Dokesbury!  "  exclaimed  Aunt  Caroline, 
"  what's  de  mattah  'f  you'  shu't  bosom?  " 

"  Oh,  that's  where  one  of  our  good  citizens  left  his  card." 

"  You  don'  mean  to  say  none  o'  dem  low-life  scoun'els " 

"  I  don't  know  who  did  it.  He  took  particular  pains  to  keep 
out  of  sight." 

"  'Lias!  "  the  old  woman  cried,  turning  on  her  son,  "  wha'  'd 
you  let  Brothah  Dokesbury  go  off  by  hisse'f  fu?  Why  n't  you 
go  'long  an'  tek  keer  o'  him?  " 

The  old  lady  stopped  even  in  the  midst  of  her  tirade,  as  her 
eyes  took  in  the  expression  on  her  son's  face. 

"  I'll  kill  some  o'  dem  damn " 

"  'Lias!  " 

"  'Scuse  me,  Mistah  Dokesbury,  but  I  feel  lak  I'll  bus'  ef 
I  don't  'spress  myse'f.  It  makes  me  so  mad.  Don't  you  go 
out  o'  hyeah  no  mo'  'dout  me.  I'll  go  'long  an'  I'll  brek 
somebody's  haid  wif  a  stone." 

"'Lias!  how  you  talkin'  fo'  de  ministah?  " 

"Well,  dat's  whut  I'll  do,  'cause  I  kin  outth'ow  any  of 
'em  an'  I  know  dey  hidin'-places." 

"  I'll  be  glad  to  accept  your  protection,"  said  Dokesbury. 

He  saw  his  advantage,  and  was  thankful  for  the  mud,— the 


246  AMERICANS  ALL 

one  thing  that  without  an  effort  restored  the  easy  relations 
between  himself  and  his  protege. 

Ostensibly  these  relations  were  reversed,  and  Elias  went  out 
with  the  preacher  as  a  guardian  and  protector.  But  the  minis 
ter  was  laying  his  nets.  It  was  on  one  of  these  rambles  that 
he  broached  to  'Lias  a  subject  which  he  had  been  considering 
for  some  time." 

"  Look  here,  'Lias,"  he  said,  "  what  are  you  going  to  do 
with  that  big  back  yard  of  yours?  " 

"  Oh,  nothin'.    'Tain't  no  'count  to  raise  nothin'  in." 

"  It  may  not  be  fit  for  vegetables,  but  it  will  raise  some 
thing." 

"  What?  " 

"  Chickens.    That's  what." 

Elias  laughed  sympathetically. 

"I'd  lak  to  eat  de  chickens  I  raise.  I  wouldn't  want  to 
be  feedin'  de  neighborhood." 

"  Plenty  of  boards,  slats,  wire,  and  a  good  lock  and  key 
would  fix  that  all  right." 

"  Yes,  but  whah  'm  I  gwine  to  git  all  dem  things?  " 

"  Why,  I'll  go  in  with  you  and  furnish  the  money,  and  help 
you  build  the  coops.  Then  you  can  sell  chickens  and  eggs,  and 
we'll  go  halves  on  the  profits." 

"Hush  man!  "  cried  'Lias,  in  delight. 

So  the  matter  was  settled,  and,  as  Aunt  Caroline  expressed 
it,  "  Fu'  a  week  er  sich  a  mattah,  you  nevah  did  see  sich  ta'in' 
down  an'  buildin'  up  in  all  yo'  bo'n  days." 

'Lias  went  at  the  work  with  zest  and  Dokesbury  noticed  his 
skill  with  tools.  He  let  fall  the  remark:  "  Say,  'Lias,  there's  a 
school  near  here  where  they  teach  carpentry;  why  don't  you 
go  and  learn?  " 

"  What  I  gwine  to  do  with  bein'  a  cyahpenter?  " 

"  Repair  some  of  these  houses  around  Mt.  Hope,  if  noth 
ing  more,"  Dokesbury  responded,  laughing;  and  there  the  mat 
ter  rested. 


THE  ORDEAL  AT  MT.  HOPE  247 

The  work  prospered,  and  as  the  weeks  went  on,  'Lias's  enter 
prise  became  the  town's  talk.  One  of  Aunt  Caroline's  patrons 
who  had  come  with  some  orders  about  work  regarded  the 
changed  condition  of  affairs,  and  said,  "  Why,  Aunt  Caroline, 
this  doesn't  look  like  the  same  place.  I'll  have  to  buy  some 
eggs  from  you;  you  keep  your  yard  and  hen-house  so  nice,  it's 
an  advertisement  for  the  eggs." 

u  Don't  talk  to  me  nothin'  'bout  dat  ya'd,  Miss  Lucy," 
Aunt  Caroline  had  retorted.  "  Dat  'long  to  'Lias  an'  de 
preachah.  Hit  dey  doin's.  Dey  done  mos'  nigh  drove  me  out 
wif  dey  cleanness.  I  ain't  nevah  seed  no  sich  ca'in'  on  in  my 
life  befo'.  Why,  my  'Lias  done  got  right  brigity  an'  talk 
about  bein'  somep'n." 

Dokesbury  had  retired  from  his  partnership  with  the  boy 
save  in  so  far  as  he  acted  as  a  general  supervisor.  His  share 
had  been  sold  to  a  friend  of  'Lias,  Jim  Hughes.  The  two 
seemed  to  have  no  other  thought  save  of  raising,  tending,  and 
selling  chickens. 

Mt.  Hope  looked  on  and  ceased  to  scoff.  Money  is  a  great 
dignifier,  and  Jim  and  'Lias  were  making  money.  There  had 
been  some  sniffs  when  the  latter  had  hinged  the  front  gate 
and  whitewashed  his  mother's  cabin,  but  even  that  had  been 
accepted  now  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Dokesbury  had  done  his  work.  He,  too,  looked  on,  and  in 
some  satisfaction. 

"  Let  the  leaven  work,"  he  said,  "  and  all  Mt.  Hope  must 


It  was  one  day,  nearly  a  year  later,  that  "  old  lady  Hughes  " 
dropped  in  on  Aunt  Caroline  for  a  chat. 

"  Well,  I  do  say,  Sis'  Ca'line,  dem  two  boys  o'  ourn  done  sot 
dis  town  on  fiah." 

"  What  now,  Sis'  Lizy?  " 

"  Why,  evah  sence  'Lias  tuk  it  into  his  haid  to  be  a  cyahpen- 
ter  an'  Jim  'cided  to  go  'long  an'  lu'n  to  be  a  blacksmiff,  some 


248  AMERICANS  ALL 

o'  dese  hyeah  othah  young  people's  been  trying  to  do  some- 
p'n'." 

"  All  dey  wanted  was  a  staht." 

"  Well,  now  will  you  b'lieve  me,  dat  no- 'count  Tom  John 
son  done  opened  a  fish  sto',  an'  he  has  de  boys  an'  men  bring 
him  dey  fish  all  de  time.  He  gives  'em  a  little  somep'n  fu' 
dey  ketch,  den  he  go  sell  'em  to  de  white  folks." 

"Lawd,  how  long!  " 

"  An'  what  you  think  he  say?  " 

"  I  do'  know,  sis'." 

"  He  say  ez  soon  'z  he  git  money  enough,  he  gwine  to  dat 
school  whah  'Lias  and  Jim  gone  an'  lu'n  to  fahm  scientific." 

"Bless  de  Lawd!  Well,  'urn,  I  don'  put  nothin'  pas'  de 
young  folks  now." 

Mt.  Hope  had  at  last  awakened.  Something  had  come  to 
her  to  which  she  might  aspire, — something  that  she  could 
understand  and  reach.  She  was  not  soaring,  but  she  was  ris 
ing  above  the  degradation  in  which  Harold  Dokesbury  had 
found  her.  And  for  her  and  him  the  ordeal  had  passed. 


PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 

The  Negro  race  in  America  has  produced  musicians,  com 
posers  and  painters,  but  it  was  left  for  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 
to  give  it  fame  in  literature.  He  was  of  pure  African  stock;  his 
father  and  mother  were  born  in  slavery,  and  neither  had  any 
schooling,  although  the  father  had  taught  himself  to  read. 
Paul  was  born  in  Dayton,  Ohio,  June  27,  1872.  He  was 
christened  Paul,  because  his  father  said  that  he  was  to  be  a 
great  man.  He  was  a  diligent  pupil  at  school,  and  began  to 
make  verses  when  he  was  still  a  child.  His  ability  was  recog 
nized  by  his  class  mates;  he  was  made  editor  of  the  high 
school  paper,  and  wrote  the  class  song  for  his  commencement. 

The  death  of  his  father  made  it  necessary  for  him  to  sup 
port  his  mother.  He  sought  for  some  employment  where  his 
education  might  be  put  to  some  use,  but  finding  such  places 
closed  to  him,  he  became  an  elevator  boy.  He  continued  to 
write,  however,  and  in  1892  his  first  volume  was  published, 
a  book  of  poems  called  Oak  and  Ivy.  The  publishers  were  so 
doubtful  of  its  success  that  they  would  not  bring  it  out  until 
a  friend  advanced  the  cost  of  publication.  Paul  now  sold 
books  to  the  passengers  in  his  elevator,  and  realized  enough 
to  repay  his  friend.  He  was  occasionally  asked  to  give  read 
ings  from  his  poetry.  Gifted  as  he  was  with  a  deep,  melodious 
voice,  and  a  fine  power  of  mimicry,  he  was  very  successful.  In 
1893  he  was  sought  out  by  a  man  who  was  organizing  a  con 
cert  company  and  who  engaged  Paul  to  go  along  as  reader. 
Full  of  enthusiasm,  he  set  to  work  committing  his  poems  to 
memory,  and  writing  new  ones.  Ten  days  before  the  company 
was  to  start,  word  came  that  it  had  been  disbanded.  Paul 
found  himself  at  the  approach  of  winter  without  money  and 

249 


250  AMERICANS  ALL 

without  work,  and  with  his  mother  in  real  need.  In  his  dis 
couragement  he  even  thought  of  suicide,  but  by  the  help  of  a 
friend  he  found  work,  and  with  it  courage.  In  a  letter  written 
about  this  time  he  tells  of  his  ambitions:  "  I  did  once  want  to  be 
a  lawyer,  but  that  ambition  has  long  since  died  out  before  the 
all-absorbing  desire  to  be  a  worthy  singer  of  the  songs  of  God 
and  nature.  To  be  able  to  interpret  my  own  people  through 
song  and  story,  and  to  prove  to  the  many  that  we  are  more 
human  than  African." 

A  second  volume  of  poems,  Majors  and  Minors,  appeared  in 
1895.  Like  his  first  book  it  was  printed  by  a  local  publisher, 
and  had  but  a  small  sale.  The  actor  James  A.  Herne  hap 
pened  to  be  playing  Shore  Acres  in  Toledo;  Paul  saw  him, 
admired  his  acting,  and  timidly  presented  him  with  a  copy 
of  his  book.  Mr.  Herne  read  it  with  great  pleasure,  and  sent 
it  on  to  his  friend  William  Dean  Howells,  who  was  then  editor 
of  Harper's  Weekly.  In  June,  1896,  there  appeared  in  that 
journal  a  full-page  review  of  the  work  of  Paul  Laurence  Dun- 
bar,  quoting  freely  from  his  poems,  and  praising  them  highly. 
This  recognition  by  America's  greatest  critic  was  the  begin 
ning  of  Paul's  national  reputation.  Orders  came  for  his  books 
from  all  over  the  country;  a  manager  engaged  him  for  a  series 
of  readings  from  his  poems,  and  a  New  York  firm,  Dodd 
Mead  &  Co.,  arranged  to  bring  out  his  next  book,  Lyrics  of 
Lowly  Life. 

In  1897  he  went  to  England  to  give  a  series  of  readings. 
Here  he  was  a  guest  at  the  Savage  Club,  one  of  the  best-known 
clubs  of  London.  His  readings  were  very  successful,  but  a 
dishonest  manager  cheated  him  out  of  the  proceeds,  and  he 
was  obliged  to  cable  to  his  friends  for  money  to  come  home. 

Through  the  efforts  of  Col.  Robert  G.  Ingersoll,  the  young 
poet  obtained  a  position  in  the  Congressional  Library  at  Wash 
ington.  It  was  thought  that  this  would  give  him  just  the 
opportunity  he  needed  for  study,  but  the  work  proved  too  con 
fining  for  his  health.  The  year  1898  was  marked  by  two 


PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  251 

events:  the  publication  of  his  first  book  of  short  stories,  Folks 
From  Dixie,  and  his  marriage  to  Miss  Alice  R.  Moore.  In 
1899  at  the  request  of  Booker  T.  Washington  he  went  to 
Tuskeegee  and  gave  several  readings  and  lectures  before  the 
students,  also  writing  a  school  song  for  them.  He  made  a 
tour  through  the  South,  giving  readings  with  much  success,  but 
the  strain  of  public  appearances  was  beginning  to  tell  upon  his 
health.  He  continued  to  write,  and  in  1899  published  Lyrics 
of  the  Hearthside,  dedicated  to  his  wife.  He  was  invited  to  go 
to  Albany  to  read  before  a  distinguished  audience,  where 
Theodore  Roosevelt,  then  governor,  was  to  introduce  him. 
He  started,  but  was  unable  to  get  farther  than  New  York. 
Here  he  lay  sick  for  weeks,  and  when  he  grew  stronger,  the 
doctors  said  that  his  lungs  were  affected  and  he  must  have  a 
change  of  climate.  He  went  to  Colorado  in  the  fall  of  1899, 
and  wrote  back  to  a  friend:  "  Well,  it  is  something  to  sit  under 
the  shadow  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  even  if  one  only  goes 
there  to  die."  From  this  time  on  his  life  was  one  long  fight 
for  health,  and  usually  a  losing  battle,  but  he  faced  it  as 
courageously  as  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  had  done.  In  Colo 
rado  he  wrote  a  novel,  The  Love  of  Landry,  whose  scene  was 
laid  in  his  new  surroundings.  He  returned  to  Washington  in 
1900,  and  gave  occasional  readings,  but  it  was  evident  that  his 
strength  was  failing.  He  published  two  more  volumes,  The 
Strength  of  Gideon,  a  book  of  short  stories,  and  Poems  of  Cabin 
and  Field,  which  showed  that  his  genius  had  lost  none  of  its 
power.  His  last  years  were  spent  in  Dayton,  his  old  home, 
with  his  mother.  He  died  February  10,  1906. 

One  of  the  finest  tributes  to  him  was  paid  by  his  friend 
Brand  Whitlock,  then  Mayor  of  Toledo,  who  has  since  become 
famous  as  United  States  Minister  to  Belgium  during  the  Great 
War.  This  is  from  a  letter  written  when  he  heard  that  the 
young  poet  was  dead: 

Paul  was  a  poet:  and  I  find  that  when  I  have  said  that  I  have 
said  the  greatest  and  most  splendid  thing  that  can  be  said  about 


252  AMERICANS  ALL 

a  man.  .  .  .  Nature,  who  knows  so  much  better  than  man  about 
everything,  cares  nothing  at  all  for  the  little  distinctions,  and  when 
she  elects  one  of  her  children  for  her  most  important  work,  be 
stows  on  him  the  rich  gift  of  poesy,  and  assigns  him  a  post  in  the 
greatest  of  the  arts,  she  invariably  seizes  the  opportunity  to  show 
her  contempt  of  rank  and  title  and  race  and  land  and  creed.  She 
took  Burns  from  a  plough  and  Paul  from  an  elevator,  and  Paul 
has  done  for  his  own  people  what  Burns  did  for  the  peasants  of 
Scotland — he  has  expressed  them  in  their  own  way  and  in  their 
own  words. 


WITH  THE  POLICE 


Not  all  Americans  are  good  Americans.  For  the  law 
breakers,  American  born  or  otherwise,  we  need  men  to  enforce 
the  law.  Of  these  guardians  of  public  safety,  one  body,  the 
Pennsylvania  State  Police,  has  become  famous  for  its  achieve 
ments.  Katherine  Mayo  studied  their  work  at  first  hand,  met 
the  men  of  the  force,  visited  the  scenes  of  their  activity,  and 
in  THE  STANDARD  BEARERS,  tells  of  their  daring  exploits.  This 
story  is  taken  from  that  book. 


ISRAEL  DRAKE 

BY 

KATHERINE  MAYO 

ISRAEL  DRAKE  was  a  bandit  for  simple  love  of  the  thing.  To 
hunt  for  another  reason  would  be  a  waste  of  time.  The  blood 
in  his  veins  was  pure  English,  unmixed  since  long  ago.  His 
environment  was  that  of  his  neighbors.  His  habitat  was  the 
noble  hills.  But  Israel  Drake  was  a  bandit,  just  as  his  neigh 
bors  were  farmers — just  as  a  hawk  is  a  hawk  while  its  neighbors 
are  barnyard  fowls. 

Israel  Drake  was  swarthy-visaged,  high  of  cheek  bone,  with 
large,  dark,  deep-set  eyes,  and  a  thin-lipped  mouth  covered  by 
a  long  and  drooping  black  mustache.  Barefooted,  he  stood 
six  feet  two  inches  tall.  Lean  as  a  panther,  and  as  supple,  he 
could  clear  a  five-foot  rail  fence  without  the  aid  of  his  hand. 
He  ran  like  a  deer.  As  a  woodsman  the  very  deer  could 
have  taught  him  little.  With  rifle  and  revolver  he  was  an  ex 
pert  shot,  and  the  weapons  he  used  were  the  truest  and  best. 

All  the  hill-people  of  Cumberland  County  dreaded  him. 
All  the  scattered  valley-folk  spoke  softly  at  his  name.  And  the 
jest  and  joy  of  Israel's  care-free  life  was  to  make  them  skip 
and  shiver  and  dance  to  the  tune  of  their  trepidations. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  leader  of  a  gang,  outlaws  every 
one.  But  his  own  strong  aura  eclipsed  the  rest,  and  he  glared 
alone,  in  the  thought  of  his  world,  endued  with  terrors  of 
diverse  origin. 

His  genius  kept  him  fully  aware  of  the  value  of  this  pre 
eminence,  and  it  lay  in  his  wisdom  and  pleasure  to  fan  the 
flame  of  his  own  repute.  In  this  it  amused  him  to  seek  the 


256  AMERICANS  ALL 

picturesque — the  unexpected.  With  an  imagination  fed  by 
primeval  humor  and  checked  by  no  outward  circumstances  of 
law,  he  achieved  a  ready  facility.  Once,  for  example,  while 
trundling  through  his  town  of  Shippensburg  on  the  rear  plat 
form  of  a  freight  train,  he  chanced  to  spy  a  Borough  Constable 
crossing  a  bridge  near  the  track. 

"  Happy  thought!  Let's  touch  the  good  soul  up.  He's  get 
ting  stodgy." 

Israel  drew  a  revolver  and  fired,  neatly  nicking  the  Con- 
table's  hat.  Then  with  a  mountaineer's  hoot,  he  gayly  pro 
claimed  his  identity. 

Again,  and  many  times,  he  would  send  into  this  or  that  town 
or  settlement  a  message  addressed  to  the  Constable  or  Chief 
of  Police:— 

"  I  am  coming  down  this  afternoon.  Get  away  out  of  town. 
Don't  let  me  find  you  there." 

Obediently  they  went  away.  And  Israel,  strolling  the  streets 
that  afternoon  just  as  he  had  promised  to  do,  would  enter 
shop  after  shop,  look  over  the  stock  at  his  leisure,  and,  with 
perfect  good-humor,  pick  out  whatever  pleased  him,  regardless 
of  cost. 

"  I  think  I'll  take  this  here  article,"  he  would  say  to  the 
trembling  store-keeper,  affably  pocketing  his  choice. 

"Help  yourself,  Mr.  Drake!  Help  yourself,  sir!  Glad 
we  are  able  to  please  you  to-day." 

Which  was  indeed  the  truth.  And  many  of  them  there  were 
who  would  have  hastened  to  curry  favor  with  their  persecutor 
by  whispering  in  his  ear  a  word  of  warning  had  they  known  of 
any  impending  attempt  against  him  by  the  agents  of  peace. 

Such  was  their  estimate  of  the  relative  strength  of  Israel 
Drake  and  of  the  law  forces  of  the  Sovereign  State  of  Penn 
sylvania. 

In  the  earlier  times  they  had  tried  to  arrest  him.  Once  the 
attempt  succeeded  and  Israel  went  to  the  Penitentiary  for  a 
term.  But  he  emerged  a  better  and  wilier  bandit  than  before, 


ISRAEL  DRAKE  257 

to  embark  upon  a  career  that  made  his  former  life  seem  tame. 
Sheriffs  and  constables  now  proved  powerless  against  him, 
whatever  they  essayed. 

Then  came  a  grand,  determined  effort  when  the  Sheriff,  sup 
ported  by  fifteen  deputies,  all  heavily  armed,  actually  sur 
rounded  Drake's  house.  But  the  master-outlaw,  alone  and  at 
ease  at  an  upper  window,  his  Winchester  repeating-rifle  in  his 
hand  and  a  smile  of  still  content  on  his  face,  coolly  stood  the 
whole  army  off  until,  weary  of  empty  danger,  it  gave  up  the 
siege  and  went  home. 

This  disastrous  expedition  ended  the  attempts  of  the  local 
authorities  to  capture  Israel  Drake.  Thenceforth  he  pursued 
his  natural  course  without  pretense  of  let  or  hindrance.  At 
the  time  when  this  story  begins,  no  fewer  than  fourteen  war 
rants  were  out  for  his  apprehension,  issued  on  charges  ranging 
from  burglary  and  highway  robbery  through  a  long  list  of 
felonies.  But  the  warrants,  slowly  accumulating,  lay  in  the 
bottom  of  official  drawers,  apprehending  nothing  but  dust.  No 
one  undertook  to  serve  them.  Life  was  too  sweet — too  short. 

Then  came  a  turn  of  fate.  Israel  chanced  to  bethink  him 
self  of  a  certain  aged  farmer  living  with  his  old  wife  near 
a  spot  called  Lee's  Cross-Road.  The  two  dwelt  by  them 
selves,  without  companions  on  their  farm,  and  without  neigh 
bors.  And  they  were  reputed  to  have  money. 

The  money  might  not  be  much — might  be  exceedingly  little. 
But,  even  so,  Israel  could  use  it,  and  in  any  event  there  would 
be  the  fun  of  the  trick.  So  Israel  summoned  one  Carey  Mor 
rison,  a  gifted  mate  and  subordinate,  with  whom  he  proceeded 
to  act. 

At  dead  of  night  the  two  broke  into  the  farmhouse — crept 
into  the  chamber  of  the  old  pair — crept  softly,  softly,  lest 
the  farmer  might  keep  a  shotgun  by  his  side.  Sneaking  to 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  Israel  suddenly  flashed  his  lantern  full 
upon  the  pillows — upon  the  two  pale,  deep-seamed  faces 
crowned  with  silver  hair. 


258  AMERICANS  ALL 

The  woman  sat  up  with  a  piercing  scream.  The  farmer 
clutched  at  his  gun.  But  Israel,  bringing  the  glinting  barrel 
of  his  revolver  into  the  lantern's  shaft  of  light,  ordered  both  to 
lie  down.  Carey,  slouching  at  hand,  awaited  orders. 

"  Where  is  your  money?  "  demanded  Israel,  indicating  the 
farmer  by  the  point  of  his  gun. 

"I  have  no  money,  you  coward!  " 

"  It's  no  use  your  lying  to  me.    Where's  the  money?  " 

"  I  have  no  money,  I  tell  you." 

"  Carey,"  observed  Israel,  "  hunt  a  candle." 

While  Carey  looked  for  the  candle,  Israel  surveyed  his  vic 
tims  with  a  cheerful,  anticipatory  grin. 

The  candle  came;  was  lighted. 

"  Carey,"  Israel  spoke  again,  "  you  pin  the  old  woman 
down.  Pull  the  quilt  off.  Clamp  her  feet  together.  So!  " 

Then  he  thrust  the  candle-flame  against  the  soles  of  those 
gnarled  old  feet — thrust  it  close,  while  the  flame  bent  upward, 
and  the  melting  tallow  poured  upon  the  bed. 

The  woman  screamed  again,  this  time  in  pain.  The  farmer 
half  rose,  with  a  quivering  cry  of  rage,  but  Israel's  gun  stared 
him  between  the  eyes.  The  woman  screamed  without  interval. 
There  was  a  smell  of  burning  flesh. 

"  Now  we'll  change  about,"  remarked  Israel,  beaming.  "  I'll 
hold  the  old  feller.  You  take  the  candle,  Carey.  You  don't 
reely  need  your  gun — now,  do  ye,  boy?  " 

And  so  they  began  afresh. 

It  was  not  a  game  to  last  long.  Before  dawn  the  two  were 
back  in  their  own  place,  bearing  the  little  all  of  value  that 
the  rifled  house  had  contained. 

When  the  news  of  the  matter  spread  abroad,  it  seemed, 
somehow,  just  a  straw  too  much.  The  District  Attorney  of 
the  County  of  Cumberland  blazed  into  white  heat.  But  he 
was  powerless,  he  found.  Not  an  officer  within  his  entire 
jurisdiction  expressed  any  willingness  even  to  attempt  an 
arrest. 


ISRAEL  DRAKE  259 

"  Then  we  shall  see,"  said  District  Attorney  Rhey,  "  what 
the  State  will  do  for  us,  since  we  cannot  help  ourselves!  " 
And  he  rushed  off  a  telegram,  confirmed  by  post,  to  the 
Superintendent  of  the  Department  of  State  Police. 

The  Superintendent  of  the  Department  of  State  Police 
promptly  referred  the  matter  to  the  Captain  of  "  C  "  Troop, 
with  orders  to  act.  For  Cumberland  County,  being  within  the 
southeastern  quarter  of  the  Commonwealth,  lies  under  "  C  " 
Troop's  special  care. 

It  was  Adams,  in  those  days,  who  held  that  command — 
Lynn  G.  Adams,  now  Captain  of  "  A  "  Troop,  although  for  the 
duration  of  the  war  serving  in  the  regular  army,  even  as  his 
fathers  before  him  have  served  in  our  every  war,  including  that 
which  put  the  country  on  the  map.  Truer  soldier,  finer  offi 
cer,  braver  or  straighter  or  surer  dealer  with  men  and  things 
need  not  be  sought.  His  victories  leave  no  needless  scar  be 
hind,  and  his  command  would  die  by  inches  rather  than  fail 
him  anywhere. 

The  Captain  of  "  C  "  Troop,  then,  choosing  with  judgment, 
picked  his  man — picked  Trooper  Edward  Hallisey,  a  Boston 
Irishman,  square  of  jaw,  shrewd  of  eye,  quick  of  wit,  strong 
of  wind  and  limb.  And  he  ordered  Private  Hallisey  to  pro 
ceed  at  once  to  Carlisle,  county  seat  of  Cumberland,  and  report 
to  the  District  Attorney  for  service  toward  effecting  the  appre 
hension  of  Israel  Drake. 

Three  days  later — it  was  the  28th  of  September,  to  be  exact 
— Private  Edward  Hallisey  sent  in  his  report  to  his  Troop 
Commander.  He  had  made  all  necessary  observations,  he 
said,  and  was  ready  to  arrest  the  criminal.  In  this  he  would 
like  to  have  the  assistance  of  two  Troopers,  who  should  join 
him  at  Carlisle. 

The  report  came  in  the  morning  mail.  First  Sergeant  Price 
detailed  two  men  from  the  Barracks  reserve.  They  were  Pri 
vates  H.  K.  Merryfield  and  Harvey  J.  Smith.  Their  orders 
were  simply  to  proceed  at  once,  in  civilian  clothes,  to  Carlisle, 


26o  AMERICANS  ALL 

where  they  would  meet  Private  Hallisey  and  assist  him  in 
effecting  the  arrest  of  Israel  Drake. 

Privates  Merryfield  and  Smith,  carrying  in  addition  to  their 
service  revolvers  the  44-caliber  Springfield  carbine  which  is 
the  Force's  heavy  weapon,  left  by  the  next  train. 

On  the  Carlisle  station  platform,  as  the  two  Troopers  de 
barked,  some  hundred  persons  were  gathered  in  pursuance  of 
various  and  centrifugal  designs.  But  one  impulse  they  ap 
peared  unanimously  to  share — the  impulse  to  give  as  wide  a 
berth  as  possible  to  a  peculiarly  horrible  tramp. 

Why  should  a  being  like  that  intrude  himself  upon  a  pas 
senger  platform  in  a  respectable  country  town?  Not  to  board 
a  coach,  surely,  for  such  as  he  pay  no  fares.  To  spy  out  the 
land?  To  steal  luggage?  Or  simply  to  make  himself  hateful 
to  decent  folk? 

He  carried  his  head  with  a  hangdog  lurch — his  heavy  jaw 
was  rough  with  stubble  beard.  His  coat  and  trousers  flut 
tered  rags  and  his  toes  stuck  out  of  his  boots.  Women 
snatched  back  their  skirts  as  he  slouched  near,  and  men  mut 
tered  and  scowled  at  him  for  a  contaminating  beast. 

Merryfield  and  Smith,  drifting  near  this  scum  of  the  earth, 
caught  the  words  "  Four- thirty  train "  and  the  name  of  a 
station. 

"  Right,"  murmured  Merryfield. 

Then  he  went  and  bought  tickets. 

In  the  shelter  of  an  ancient,  grimy  day-coach,  the  scum  mut 
tered  again,  as  Smith  brushed  past  him  in  the  aisle. 

"  Charlie  Stover's  farm,"  said  he. 

"  M'm,"  said  Smith. 

At  a  scrap  of  a  station,  in  the  foothills  of  ascending  heights 
the  tramp  and  the  Troopers  separately  detrained.  In  the 
early  evening  all  three  strayed  together  once  more  in  the 
shadow  of  the  lilacs  by  Charlie  Stover's  gate. 

Over  the  supper-table  Hallisey  gave  the  news.  "  Drake  is 
somewhere  on  the  mountain  to-night,"  said  he.  "  His  cabin 


ISRAEL  DRAKE  261 

is  way  up  high,  on  a  ridge  called  Huckleberry  Patch.  He  is 
practically  sure  to  go  home  in  the  course  of  the  evening.  Then 
is  our  chance.  First,  of  course,  you  fellows  will  change  your 
clothes.  I've  got  some  old  things  ready  for  you." 

Farmer  Stover,  like  every  other  denizen  of  the  rural  county, 
had  lived  for  years  in  terror  and  hatred  of  Israel  Drake.  Will 
ingly  he  had  aided  Hallisey  to  the  full  extent  of  his  power. 
He  had  told  all  that  he  knew  of  the  bandit's  habits  and  mates. 
He  had  indicated  the  mountain  trails  and  he  had  given  the 
Trooper  such  little  shelter  and  food  as  the  latter  had  stopped 
to  take  during  his  rapid  work  of  investigation.  But  now  he 
was  asked  to  perform  a  service  that  he  would  gladly  have  re 
fused;  he  was  asked  to  hitch  up  a  horse  and  wagon  and  to 
drive  the  three  Troopers  to  the  very  vicinity  of  Israel  Drake's 
house. 

"  Oh,  come  on,  Mr.  Stover,"  they  urged.  "  You're  a  public- 
spirited  man,  as  you've  shown.  Do  it  for  your  neighbors'  sake 
if  not  for  your  own.  You  want  the  county  rid  of  this  pest." 

Very  reluctantly  the  farmer  began  the  trip.  With  every 
turn  of  the  ever-mounting  forest  road  his  reluctance  grew. 
Grisly  memories,  grisly  pictures,  flooded  his  mind.  It  was  night, 
and  the  trees  in  the  darkness  whispered  like  evil  men.  The 
bushes  huddled  like  crouching  figures.  And  what  was  it,  mov 
ing  stealthily  over  there,  that  crackled  twigs?  At  last  he 
could  bear  it  no  more. 

"  Here's  where  /  turn  'round,"  he  muttered  hoarsely.  "  If 
you  fellers  are  going  farther  you'll  go  alone.  I  got  a  use  for 
my  life!  " 

"  All  right,  then,"  said  Hallisey.  "  You've  done  well  by  us 
already.  Good-night." 

It  was  a  fine  moonlight  night  and  Hallisey  now  knew  those 
woods  as  well  as  did  his  late  host.  He  led  his  two  comrades 
up  another  stiff  mile  of  steady  climbing.  Then  he  struck 
off,  by  an  almost  invisible  trail,  into  the  dense  timber.  Silently 
the  three  men  moved,  threading  the  fragrant,  silver-flecked 


262  AMERICANS  ALL 

blackness  with  practised  woodsmen's  skill.  At  last  their  file- 
leader  stopped  and  beckoned  his  mates. 

Over  his  shoulder  the  two  studied  the  scene  before  them: 
A  clearing  chopped  out  of  the  dense  tall  timber.  In  the  midst 
of  the  clearing  a  log  cabin,  a  story  and  a  half  high.  On  two 
sides  of  the  cabin  a  straggling  orchard  of  peach  and  apple  trees. 
In  the  cabin  window  a  dim  light. 

It  was  then  about  eleven  o'clock.  The  three  Troopers,  ef 
facing  themselves  in  the  shadows,  laid  final  plans. 

The  cabin  had  two  rooms  on  the  top  floor  and  one  below, 
said  Hallisey,  beneath  his  breath.  The  first-floor  room  had 
a  door  and  two  windows  on  the  north,  and  the  same  on  the 
south,  just  opposite.  Under  the  west  end  was  a  cellar,  with  an 
outside  door.  Before  the  main  door  to  the  north  was  a  little 
porch.  This,  by  day,  commanded  the  sweep  of  the  mountain 
side;  and  here,  when  Drake  was  "  hiding  out "  in  some  neigh 
boring  eyrie,  expecting  pursuit,  his  wife  was  wont  to  signal 
him  concerning  the  movements  of  intruders. 

Her  code  was  written  in  dish-water.  A  panful  thrown  to  the 
east  meant  danger  in  the  west,  and  vice  versa;  this  Hallisey 
himself  had  seen  and  now  recalled  in  case  of  need. 

Up  to  the  present  moment  each  officer  had  carried  his  car 
bine,  taken  apart  and  wrapped  in  a  bundle,  to  avoid  the 
remark  of  chance  observers  by  the  way.  Now  each  put  his 
weapon  together,  ready  for  use.  They  compared  their  watches, 
setting  them  to  the  second.  They  discarded  their  coats  and 
hats. 

The  moon  was  flooding  the  clearing  with  high,  pale  light, 
adding  greatly  to  the  difficulty  of  their  task.  Accordingly, 
they  plotted  carefully.  Each  Trooper  took  a  door — Hallisey 
that  to  the  north,  Merryfield  that  to  the  south,  Smith  that  of 
the  cellar.  It  was  agreed  that  each  should  creep  to  a  point 
opposite  the  door  on  which  he  was  to  advance,  ten  minutes 
being  allowed  for  all  to  reach  their  initial  positions;  that  at 
exactly  five  minutes  to  midnight  the  advance  should  be  started, 


ISRAEL  DRAKE  263 

slowly,  through  the  tall  grass  of  the  clearing  toward  the  cabin; 
that  in  case  of  any  unusual  noise  or  alarm,  each  man  should 
lie  low  exactly  five  minutes  before  resuming  this  advance; 
and  that  from  a  point  fifty  yards  from  the  cabin  a  rush  should 
be  made  upon  the  doors. 

According  to  the  request  of  the  District  Attorney,  Drake 
was  to  be  taken  "  dead  or  alive,"  but  according  to  an  adaman 
tine  principle  of  the  Force,  he  must  be  taken  not  only  alive, 
but  unscathed  if  that  were  humanly  possible.  This  meant 
that  he  must  not  be  given  an  opportunity  to  run  and  so 
render  shooting  necessary.  If,  however,  he  should  break  away, 
his  chance  of  escape  would  be  small,  as  each  Trooper  was  a 
dead  shot  with  the  weapons  he  was  carrying. 

The  scheme  concerted,  the  three  officers  separated,  heading 
apart  to  their  several  starting-points.  At  five  minutes  before 
midnight,  to  the  tick  of  their  synchronized  watches,  each  be 
gan  to  glide  through  the  tall  grass.  But  it  was  late  September. 
The  grass  was  dry.  Old  briar-veins  dragged  at  brittle  stalks. 
Shimmering  whispers  of  withered  leaves  echoed  to  the  small 
est  touch;  and  when  the  men  were  still  some  two  hundred 
yards  from  the  cabin  the  sharp  ears  of  a  dog  caught  the 
rumor  of  all  these  tiny  sounds, — and  the  dog  barked. 

Every  man  stopped  short — moved  not  a  finger  again  till  five 
minutes  had  passed.  Then  once  more  each  began  to  creep — 
reached  the  fifty-yard  point — stood  up,  with  a  long  breath, 
and  dashed  for  his  door. 

At  one  and  the  same  moment,  practically,  the  three  stood 
in  the  cabin,  viewing  a  scene  of  domestic  peace.  A  short, 
square,  swarthy  woman,  black  of  eye,  high  of  cheek  bone, 
stood  by  a  stove  calmly  stirring  a  pot.  On  the  table  besides 
her,  on  the  floor  around  her,  clustered  many  jars  of  peaches 
— jars  freshly  filled,  steaming  hot,  awaiting  their  tops.  In  a 
corner  three  little  children,  huddled  together  on  a  low  bench, 
stared  at  the  strangers  with  sleepy  eyes.  Three  chairs;  a  cup 
board  with  dishes;  bunches  of  corn  hanging  from  the  rafters 


264  AMERICANS  ALL 

by  their  husks;  festoons  of  onions;  tassels  of  dried  herbs — all 
this  made  visible  by  the  dull  light  of  a  small  kerosene  lamp 
whose  dirty  chimney  was  streaked  with  smoke.  All  this  and 
nothing  more. 

Two  of  the  men,  jumping  for  the  stairs,  searched  the  upper 
half-story  thoroughly,  but  without  profit. 

"  Mrs.  Drake,"  said  Hallisey,  as  they  returned,  "  we  are 
officers  of  the  State  Police,  come  to  arrest  your  husband. 
Where  is  he?  " 

In  silence,  in  utter  calm  the  woman  still  stirred  her  pot,  not 
missing  the  rhythm  of  a  stroke. 

"  The  dog  warned  them.  He's  just  got  away,"  said  each 
officer  to  himself.  "  She's  too  calm." 

She  scooped  up  a  spoonful  of  the  fruit,  peered  at  it  critically, 
splashed  it  back  into  the  bubbling  pot.  From  her  manner  it 
appeared  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to  be  canning 
peaches  at  midnight  on  the  top  of  South  Mountain  in  the  pres 
ence  of  officers  of  the  State  Police. 

"  My  husband's  gone  to  Baltimore,"  she  vouchsafed  at  her 
easy  leisure. 

"  Let's  have  a  look  in  the  cellar,"  said  Merryfield,  and 
dropped  down  the  cellar  stairs  with  Hallisey  at  his  heels.  To 
gether  they  ransacked  the  little  cave  to  a  conclusion.  During 
the  process,  Merryfield  conceived  an  idea. 

"  Hallisey,"  he  murmured,  "  what  would  you  think  of  my 
staying  down  here,  while  you  and  Smith  go  off  talking  as 
though  we  were  all  together?  She  might  say  something  to  the 
children,  when  she  believes  we're  gone,  and  I  could  hear  every 
word  through  that  thin  floor." 

"  We'll  do  it!  "  Hallisey  answered,  beneath  his  voice.  Then, 
shouting: — 

"  Come  on,  Smith!  Let's  get  away  from  this;  no  use  wasting 
time  here!  " 

And  in  another  moment  Smith  and  Hallisey  were  crashing 
up  the  mountain-side,  calling  out:  "Hi,  there!  Merryfield — 


ISRAEL  DRAKE  265 

Oh!  Merryfield,  wait  for  us!  " — as  if  their  comrade  had  out 
stripped  them  on  the  trail. 

Merryfield  had  made  use  of  the  noise  of  their  departure 
to  establish  himself  in  a  tenable  position  under  the  widest 
crack  in  the  floor.  Now  he  held  himself  motionless,  subduing 
even  his  breath. 

One — two — three  minutes  of  dead  silence.  Then  came  the 
timorous  half- whisper  of  a  frightened  child: 

"  Will  them  men  kill  father  if  they  find  him?  " 

"  S-sh!  " 

"  Mother!  "  faintly  ventured  another  little  voice,  "  will  them 
men  kill  father  if  they  find  him?  " 

"S-sh!  S-sh!  I  tell  ye!  " 

"  Ma-ma!  Will  they  kill  my  father?  "  This  was  the  wail, 
insistent,  uncontrolled,  of  the  smallest  child  of  all. 

The  crackling  tramp  of  the  officers,  mounting  the  trail, 
had  wholly  died  away.  The  woman  evidently  believed  all 
immediate  danger  past. 

"No!  "  she  exclaimed  vehemently,  "  they  ain't  goin'  to  lay 
eyes  on  yo'  father,  hair  nor  hide  of  him.  Quit  yer  fret- 
tin'!  " 

In  a  moment  she  spoke  again:  "You  keep  still,  now,  like 
good  children,  while  I  go  out  and  empty  these  peach-stones. 
I'll  be  back  in  a  minute.  See  you  keep  still  just  where  you 
are!  " 

Stealing  noiselessly  to  the  cellar  door  as  the  woman  left 
the  house,  Merryfield  saw  her  making  for  the  woods,  a  basket 
on  her  arm.  He  watched  her  till  the  shadows  engulfed  her. 
Then  he  drew  back  to  his  own  place  and  resumed  his  silent 
vigil. 

Moments  passed,  without  a  sound  from  the  room  above. 
Then  came  soft  little  thuds  on  the  floor,  a  whimper  or  two, 
small  sighs,  and  a  slither  of  bare  legs  on  bare  boards. 

"  Poor  little  kiddies!  "  thought  Merryfield,  "  they're  coiling 
down  to  sleep!  " 


266  AMERICANS  ALL 

Back  in  the  days  when  the  Force  was  started,  the  Major  had 
said  to  each  recruit  of  them  all: — 

"  I  expect  you  to  treat  women  and  children  at  all  times  with 
every  consideration." 

From  that  hour  forth  the  principle  has  been  grafted  into 
the  lives  of  the  men.  It  is  instinct  now — self-acting,  deep, 
and  unconscious.  No  tried  Trooper  deliberately  remembers 
it.  It  is  an  integral  part  of  him,  like  the  drawing  of  his 
breath. 

"  I  wish  I  could  manage  to  spare  those  babies  and  their 
mother  in  what's  to  come!  "  Merryfield  pondered  as  he  lurked 
in  the  mould-scented  dark. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  went  by.  Five  minutes  more.  Foot 
steps  nearing  the  cabin  from  the  direction  of  the  woods.  Low 
voices — very  low.  Indistinguishable  words.  Then  the  back 
door  opened.  Two  persons  entered,  and  all  that  they  now  ut 
tered  was  clear. 

"  It  was  them  that  the  dog  heard,"  said  a  man's  voice.  "  Get 
me  my  rifle  and  all  my  ammunition.  I'll  go  to  Maryland. 
I'll  get  a  job  on  that  stone  quarry  near  Westminster.  I'll 
send  some  money  as  soon  as  I'm  paid." 

"But  you  won't  start  to-night!"  exclaimed  the  wife. 

"Yes,  to-night — this  minute.  Quick!  I  wouldn't  budge 
an  inch  for  the  County  folks.  But  with  the  State  Troopers 
after  me,  that's  another  thing.  If  I  stay  around  here  now 
they'll  get  me  dead  sure — and  send  me  up  too.  My  gun,  I 
say!  " 

"  Oh,  daddy,  daddy,  don't  go  away!  "  "  Don't  go  away  off 
and  leave  me,  daddy!  "  "  Don't  go,  don't  go!  "  came  the  chil 
dren's  plaintive  wails,  hoarse  with  fatigue  and  fright. 

Merryfield  stealthily  crept  from  the  cellar's  outside  door, 
hugging  the  wall  of  the  cabin,  moving  toward  the  rear.  As 
he  reached  the  corner,  and  was  about  to  make  the  turn  to 
ward  the  back,  he  drew  his  six-shooter  and  laid  his  carbine 
down  in  the  grass.  For  the  next  step,  he  knew,  would  bring 


ISRAEL  DRAKE  267 

him  into  plain  sight.  If  Drake  offered  any  resistance, 
the  ensuing  action  would  be  at  short  range  or  hand  to 
hand. 

He  rounded  the  corner.  Drake  was  standing  just  outside 
the  door,  a  rifle  in  his  left  hand,  his  right  hand  hidden  in  the 
pocket  of  his  overcoat.  In  the  doorway  stood  the  wife,  with 
the  three  little  children  crowding  before  her.  It  was  the 
last  moment.  They  were  saying  good-bye. 

Merryfield  covered  the  bandit  with  his  revolver. 

"  Put  up  your  hands!    You  are  under  arrest,"  he  commanded. 

"  Who  the  hell  are  you!  "  Drake  flung  back.  As  he  spoke 
he  thrust  his  rifle  into  the  grasp  of  the  woman  and  snatched 
his  right  hand  from  its  concealment.  In  its  grip  glistened  the 
barrel  of  a  nickel-plated  revolver. 

Merryfield  could  have  easily  shot  him  then  and  there — 
would  have  been  amply  warranted  in  doing  so.  But  he  had 
heard  the  children's  voices.  Now  he  saw  their  innocent,  ter 
rified  eyes. 

"Poor — little — kiddies!  "  he  thought  again. 

Drake  stood  six  feet  two  inches  high,  and  weighed  some  two 
hundred  pounds,  all  brawn.  Furthermore,  he  was  desperate. 
Merryfield  is  merely  of  medium  build. 

"Nevertheless,  I'll  take  a  chance,"  he  said  to  himself,  re 
turning  his  six-shooter  to  its  holster.  And  just  as  the  outlaw 
threw  up  his  own  weapon  to  fire,  the  Trooper,  in  a  running 
jump,  plunged  into  him  with  all  fours,  exactly  as,  when  a  boy, 
he  had  plunged  off  a  springboard  into  the  old  mill-dam  of  a 
hot  July  afternoon. 

Too  amazed  even  to  pull  his  trigger,  Drake  gave  backward 
a  step  into  the  doorway.  Merryfield's  clutch  toward  his  right 
hand  missed  the  gun,  fastening  instead  on  the  sleeve  of  his 
heavy  coat.  Swearing  wildly  while  the  woman  and  children 
screamed  behind  him,  the  bandit  struggled  to  break  the  Troop 
er's  hold — tore  and  pulled  until  the  sleeve,  where  Merryfield 
held  it,  worked  down  over  the  gun  in  his  own  grip.  So  Merry- 


268  AMERICANS  ALL 

field,  twisting  the  sleeve,  caught  a  lock-hold  on  hand  and  gui 
together. 

Drake,  standing  on  the  doorsill,  had  now  some  eight  inches 
advantage  of  height.  The  door  opened  inward,  from  right  to 
left.  With  a  tremendous  effort  Drake  forced  his  assailant  to 
his  knees,  stepped  back  into  the  room,  seized  the  door  with  his 
left  hand  and  with  the  whole  weight  on  his  shoulder  slammed 
it  to,  on  the  Trooper's  wrist. 

The  pain  was  excruciating — but  it  did  not  break  that  lock- 
hold  on  the  outlaw's  hand  and  gun.  Shooting  from  his  knees 
like  a  projectile,  Merryfield  flung  his  whole  weight  at  the  door. 
Big  as  Drake  was,  he  could  not  hold  it.  It  gave,  and  once 
more  the  two  men  hung  at  grips,  this  time  within  the  room. 

Drake's  one  purpose  was  to  turn  the  muzzle  of  his  im 
prisoned  revolver  upon  Merryfield.  Merryfield,  with  his  left 
still  clinching  that  deadly  hand  caught  in  its  sleeve,  now 
grabbed  the  revolver  in  his  own  right  hand,  with  a  twist 
dragged  it  free,  and  flung  it  out  of  the  door. 

But,  as  he  dropped  his  right  defense,  taking  both  hands  to 
the  gun,  the  outlaw's  powerful  left  grip  closed  on  Merryfield's 
throat  with  a  strangle-hold. 

With  that  great  thumb  closing  his  windpipe,  with  the  world 
turning  red  and  black,  "  Guess  I  can't  put  it  over,  after  all!  " 
the  Trooper  said  to  himself. 

Reaching  for  his  own  revolver,  he  shoved  the  muzzle  against 
the  bandit's  breast. 

"  Damn  you,  shoot  I  "  cried  the  other,  believing  his  end  was 
come. 

But  in  that  same  instant  Merryfield  once  more  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  fear-stricken  faces  of  the  babies,  huddled  to 
gether  beyond. 

"  Hallisey  and  Smith  must  be  here  soon,"  he  thought.  "  I 
won't  shoot  yet." 

Again  he  dropped  his  revolver  back  into  the  holster,  seiz 
ing  the  wrist  of  the  outlaw  to  release  that  terrible  clamp  on 


ISRAEL  DRAKE  269 

his  throat.  As  he  did  so,  Drake  with  a  lightning  twist,  reached 
around  to  the  Trooper's  belt  and  possessed  himself  of  the  gun. 
As  he  fired  Merryfield  had  barely  time  and  space  to  throw  back 
his  head.  The  flash  blinded  him — scorched  his  face  hairless. 
The  bullet  grooved  his  body  under  the  upflung  arm  still  wrench 
ing  at  the  clutch  that  was  shutting  off  his  breath. 

Perhaps,  with  the  shot,  the  outlaw  insensibly  somewhat  re 
laxed  that  choking  arm.  Merryfield  tore  loose.  Half-blinded 
and  gasping  though  he  was,  he  flung  himself  again  at  his 
adversary  and  landed  a  blow  in  his  face.  Drake,  giving 
backward,  kicked  over  a  row  of  peach  jars,  slipped  on  the 
slimy  stream  that  poured  over  the  bare  floor,  and  dropped 
the  gun. 

Pursuing  his  advantage,  Merryfield  delivered  blow  after  blow 
on  the  outlaw's  face  and  body,  backing  him  around  the  room, 
while  both  men  slipped  and  slid,  fell  and  recovered,  on  the  jam- 
coated  floor.  The  table  crashed  over,  carrying  with  it  the 
solitary  lamp,  whose  flame  died  harmlessly,  smothered  in  tepid 
mush.  Now  only  the  moonlight  illuminated  the  scene. 

Drake  was  manoeuvring  always  to  recover  the  gun.  His 
hand  touched  the  back  of  a  chair.  He  picked  the  chair  up, 
swung  it  high,  and  was  about  to  smash  it  down  on  his  ad 
versary's  head  when  Merryfield  seized  it  in  the  air. 

At  this  moment  the  woman,  who  had  been  crouching  against 
the  wall  nursing  the  rifle  that  her  husband  had  put  into  her 
charge,  rushed  forward  clutching  the  barrel  of  the  gun,  swung 
it  at  full  arm's  length  as  she  would  have  swung  an  axe,  and 
brought  the  stock  down  on  the  Trooper's  right  hand. 

That  vital  hand  dropped — fractured,  done.  But  in  the  same 
second  Drake  gave  a  shriek  of  pain  as  a  shot  rang  out  and  his 
own  right  arm  fell  powerless. 

In  the  door  stood  Hallisey,  smoking  revolver  in  hand,  smil 
ing  grimly  in  the  moonlight  at  the  neatness  of  his  own  aim. 
What  is  the  use  of  killing  a  man,  when  you  can  wing  him 
as  trigly  as  that? 


270  AMERICANS  ALL 

Private  Smith,  who  had  entered  by  the  other  door,  was 
taking  the  rifle  out  of  the  woman's  grasp — partly  because 
she  had  prodded  him  viciously  with  the  muzzle.  He  examined 
the  chambers. 

"  Do  you  know  this  thing  is  loaded?  "  he  asked  her  in  a 
mild,  detached  voice. 

She  returned  his  gaze  with  frank  despair  in  her  black 
eyes. 

"  Drake,  do  you  surrender?  "  asked  Hallisey. 

"  Oh,  I'll  give  up.  You've  got  me!  "  groaned  the  outlaw. 
Then  he  turned  on  his  wife  with  bitter  anger.  "  Didn't  I 
tell  ye?  "  he  snarled.  "  Didn't  I  tell  ye  they'd  get  me  if  you 
kept  me  hangin'  around  here?  These  ain't  no  damn  deputies. 
These  is  the  State  Police!  '* 

"  An'  yet,  if  I'd  known  that  gun  was  loaded,"  said  she, 
"  there'd  been  some  less  of  'em  to-night!  " 

They  dressed  Israel's  arm  in  first-aid  fashion.  Then  they 
started  with  their  prisoner  down  the  mountain-trail,  at  last 
resuming  connection  with  their  farmer  friend.  Not  without 
misgivings,  the  latter  consented  to  hitch  up  his  "  double  team  " 
and  hurry  the  party  to  the  nearest  town  where  a  doctor  could 
be  found. 

As  the  doctor  dressed  the  bandit's  arm,  Private  Merryfield, 
whose  broken  right  hand  yet  awaited  care,  observed  to  the 
groaning  patient: — 

"  Do  you  know,  you  can  be  thankful  to  your  little  children 
that  you  have  your  life  left." 

"  To  hell  with  you  and  the  children  and  my  life.  I'd  a 
hundred  times  rather  you'd  killed  me  than  take  what's  comin' 
now." 

Then  the  three  Troopers  philosophically  hunted  up  a  night 
restaurant  and  gave  their  captive  a  bite  of  lunch. 

"  Now,"  said  Hallisey,  as  he  paid  the  score,  "  where's  the 
lock-up?  " 

The  three  officers,  with  Drake  in  tow,  proceeded  silently 


ISRAEL  DRAKE  271 

through  the  sleeping  streets.  Not  a  ripple  did  their  pass 
ing  occasion.  Not  even  a  dog  aroused  to  take  note  of 
them. 

Duly  they  stood  at  the  door  of  the  custodian  of  the  lock 
up,  ringing  the  bell — again  and  again  ringing  it.  Eventually 
some  one  upstairs  raised  a  window,  looked  out  for  an  ap 
preciable  moment,  quickly  lowered  the  window  and  locked 
it.  Nothing  further  occurred.  Waiting  for  a  reasonable  in 
terval  the  officers  rang  once  more.  No  answer.  Silence  com 
plete. 

Then  they  pounded  on  the  door  till  the  entire  block  heard. 

Here,  there,  up  street  and  down,  bedroom  windows  gently 
opened,  then  closed  with  finality  more  gentle  yet.  Silence. 
Not  a  voice.  Not  a  foot  on  a  stair. 

The  officers  looked  at  each  other  perplexed.  Then,  by 
chance,  they  looked  at  Drake.  Drake,  so  lately  black  with 
suicidal  gloom,  was  grinning!  Grinning  as  a  man  does  when 
the  citadel  of  his  heart  is  comforted. 

"You  don't  understand,  do  ye!"  chuckled  he.  "Well, 
I'll  tell  ye:  What  do  them  folks  see  when  they  open  their  win 
dows  and  look  down  here  in  the  road?  They  see  three  hard- 
lookin'  fellers  with  guns  in  their  hands,  here  in  this  bright 
moonlight.  And  they  see  somethin'  scarier  to  them  than  a  hun 
dred  strangers  with  guns— they  see  ME!  There  ain't  a  mother's 
son  of  'em  that'll  budge  downstairs  while  Tin  here,  not  if 
you  pound  on  their  doors  till  the  cows  come  home."  And  he 
slapped  his  knee  with  his  good  hand  and  laughed  in  pure 
ecstasy — a  laugh  that  caught  all  the  little  group  and  rocked 
it  as  with  one  mind. 

"  We  don't  begrudge  you  that,  do  we  boys?  "  Hallisey  con 
ceded.  "  Smith,  you're  as  respectable-looking  as  any  of  us. 
Hunt  around  and  see  if  you  can  find  a  Constable  that  isn't 
onto  this  thing.  We'll  wait  here  for  you." 

Moving  out  of  the  zone  of  the  late  demonstration,  Private 
Smith  learned  the  whereabouts  of  the  home  of  a  Constable. 


272  AMERICANS  ALL 

"  What's  wanted?  "  asked  the  Constable,  responding  like  a 
normal  burgher  to  Smith's  knock  at  his  door. 

"  Officer  of  State  Police,"  answered  Smith.  "  I  have  a  man 
under  arrest  and  want  to  put  him  in  the  lock-up.  Will  you 
get  me  the  keys?  " 

"  Sure.  I'll  come  right  down  and  go  along  with  you  myself. 
Just  give  me  a  jiffy  to  get  on  my  trousers  and  boots,"  cried 
the  Constable,  clearly  glad  of  a  share  in  the  adventure. 

In  a  moment  the  borough  official  was  at  the  Trooper's  side, 
talking  eagerly  as  they  moved  toward  the  place  where  the 
party  waited. 

"  So,  he's  a  highwayman,  is  he?  Good!  and  a  burglar,  too, 
and  a  cattle- thief !  Good  work!  And  you've  got  him  right  up 
the  street,  ready  to  jail!  Well,  I'll  be  switched.  Now,  what 
might  his  name  be?  Israel  Drake?  Not  Israel  Drake!  Oh, 
my  God!  " 

The  Constable  had  stopped  in  his  tracks  like  a  man  struck 
paralytic. 

"  No,  stranger,"  he  quavered.  "  I  reckon  I — I — I  won't  go 
no  further  with  you  just  now.  Here,  I'll  give  you  the  keys. 
You  can  use  'em  yourself:  These  here's  for  the  doors.  This 
bunch  is  for  the  cells.  Good-night  to  you.  I'll  be  getting  back 
home!  " 

By  the  first  train  next  morning  the  Troopers,  conveying  their 
prisoner,  left  the  village  for  the  County  Town.  As  they  de 
posited  Drake  in  the  safe-keeping  of  the  County  Jail  and  were 
about  to  depart,  he  seemed  burdened  with  an  impulse  to  speak, 
yet  said  nothing.  Then,  as  the  three  officers  were  leaving  the 
room,  he  leaned  over  and  touched  Merryfield  on  the  shoulder. 

"Shake!"  he  growled,  offering  his   unwounded  hand. 

Merryfield  "  shook "  cheerfully,  with  his  own  remaining 
sound  member. 

"  I'm  plumb  sorry  to  see  ye  go,  and  that's  a  fact,"  growled 
the  outlaw.  "  Because — well,  because  you're  the  only  man  that 
ever  tried  to  arrest  me." 


KATHERINE  MAYO 

Miss  Katharine  Mayo  comes  of  Mayflower  stock,  but  her 
birthplace  was  Ridgway,  Pennsylvania.  She  was  educated  in 
private  schools  at  Boston  and  Cambridge,  Mass.  Her  earliest 
literary  work  to  appear  in  print  was  a  series  of  articles  describ 
ing  travels  in  Norway,  followed  by  another  series  on  Colonial 
American  topics,  written  for  the  New  York  Evening  Post. 
Later,  during  a  residence  in  Dutch  Guiana,  South  America, 
she  wrote  for  the  Atlantic  Monthly  some  interesting  sketches 
of  the  natives  of  Surinam.  After  this  came  three  years  wholly 
devoted  to  historic  research.  The  work,  however,  that  first 
attracted  wide  attention  was  a  history  of  the  Pennsylvania 
State  Police,  published  in  1917,  under  the  title  of  Jttstice  To 
All. 

This  history  gives  the  complete  story  of  the  famous  Mounted 
Police  of  Pennsylvania,  illustrated  with  a  mass  of  accurate 
narrative  and  re-enforced  with  statistics.  The  occasion  of  its 
writing  was  a  personal  experience — the  cold-blooded  murder  of 
Sam  Howell,  a  fine  young  American  workingman,  a  carpenter 
by  trade,  near  Miss  Mayo's  country  home  in  New  York.  The 
circumstances  of  this  murder  could  not  have  been  more  skil 
fully  arranged  had  they  been  specially  designed  to  illustrate 
the  weakness  and  folly  of  the  ancient,  out-grown  engine  to 
which  most  states  in  the  Union,  even  yet,  look  for  the  enforce 
ment  of  their  laws  in  rural  parts.  Sam  Howell,  carrying  the 
pay  roll  on  pay-day  morning,  gave  his  life  for  his  honor  as 
gallantly  as  any  soldier  in  any  war.  He  was  shot  down,  at 
arm's  length  range,  by  four  highway  men,  to  whom,  though 
himself  unarmed,  he  would  not  surrender  his  trust.  Sheriff, 
deputy  sheriffs,  constables,  and  some  seventy-five  fellow 
laborers  available  as  sheriff's  posse  spent  hours  within  a  few 

273 


274  AMERICANS  ALL 

hundred  feet  of  the  little  wood  in  which  the  four  murderers 
were  known  to  be  hiding,  but  no  arrest  was  made  and  the 
murderers  are  today  still  at  large. 

"  You  will  have  forgotten  all  this  in  a  month's  time,"  said 
Howell's  fellow-workmen  an  hour  after  the  tragedy,  to  Miss 
Mayo  and  her  friend  Miss  Newell,  owner  of  the  estate,  OD 
the  scene.  "  Sam  was  only  a  laboring  man,  like  ourselves. 
We,  none  of  us,  have  any  protection  when  we  work  in  country 
parts." 

The  remark  sounded  bitter  indeed.  But  investigation  proved 
it,  in  principle,  only  too  true.  Sam  Howell  had  not  been  the 
first,  by  many  hundreds,  to  give  his  life  because  the  State  had 
no  real  means  to  make  her  law  revered.  And  punishment  for 
such  crimes  had  been  rare.  Sam  Howell,  however,  was  not 
to  be  forgotten,  neither  was  his  sacrifice  to  be  vain.  From  his 
blood,  shed  unseen,  in  the  obscurity  of  a  quiet  country  lane, 
was  to  spring  a  great  movement,  taking  effect  first  in  the  state 
in  which  he  died,  and  spreading  through  the  Union. 

At  that  time  Pennsylvania  was  the  only  state  of  all  the  forty- 
seven  that  had  met  its  just  obligations  to  protect  all  its  people 
under  its  laws.  Pennsylvania's  State  Police  had  been  for  ten 
years  a  body  of  defenders  of  justice,  "  without  fear  and  with 
out  reproach  ".  The  honest  people  of  the  State  had  recorded 
its  deeds  in  a  long  memory  of  noble  service.  But,  never  stoop 
ing  to  advertise  itself,  never  hesitating  to  incur  the  enmity  of 
evildoers,  it  had  had  many  traducers  and  no  historian.  There 
was  nothing  in  print  to  which  the  people  of  other  states  might 
turn  for  knowledge  of  the  accomplishment  of  the  sister  com 
monwealth. 

So,  in  order  that  the  facts  might  be  conveniently  available 
for  every  American  citizen  to  study  from  "  A  "  to  "  Z  "  and 
thus  to  decide  intelligently  for  himself  where  he  wanted  his  own 
state  to  stand,  in  the  matter  of  fair  and  full  protection  to  all 
people,  Miss  Mayo  went  to  Pennsylvania  and  embarked  on  an 
exhaustive  analysis  of  the  workings  of  the  Pennsylvania  State 


KATHERINE  MAYO  275 

Police  Force,  viewed  from  the  standpoint  of  all  parts  of  the 
community.  Ex-President  Roosevelt  wrote  the  preface  for 
Justice  To  All,  the  book  in  which  the  fruits  of  this  study  were 
finally  embodied,  and,  in  the  meantime,  Miss  Newell  devoted 
all  her  energies  to  the  development  of  an  active  and  aggressive 
state-wide  movement  for  a  State  Police.  Justice  To  All,  in 
this  campaign  was  widely  used  as  a  source  of  authority  on 
which  to  base  the  arguments  for  the  case.  And  in  1917  came 
Sam  HowelPs  triumph,  the  passage  of  the  Act  creating  the 
Department  of  New  York  State  Police,  now  popularly  called 
"  the  State  Troopers  ". 

In  the  course  of  collecting  the  material  for  this  book,  Miss 
Mayo  gathered  a  mass  of  facts  much  greater  than  one  volume 
could  properly  contain.  From  this  she  later  took  fifteen  adven 
turous  stories  of  actual  service  in  the  Pennsylvania  Force,  of 
which  some,  including  "  Israel  Drake  "  appeared  in  the  Satur 
day  Evening  Post,  while  others  came  out  simultaneously  in  the 
Atlantic  Monthly  and  in  the  Outlook.  All  were  later  collected 
in  a  volume  called  The  Standard  Bearers,  which  met  with 
a  very  cordial  reception  by  readers  and  critics. 

During  the  latter  part  of  the  World  War,  Miss  Mayo  was 
in  France  investigating  the  war-work  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  Her 
experiences  there  furnished  material  for  a  book  from  which 
advance  pages  appeared  in  the  Outlook  in  the  form  of  separate 
stories,  "  Billy's  Hut,"  "  The  Colonel's  Lady  "  and  others.  The 
purpose  of  this  book  was  to  determine,  as  closely  as  possible, 
the  real  values,  whatever  those  might  be,  of  the  work  actually 
accomplished  by  the  Overseas  Y,  and  to  lay  the  plain  truth 
without  bias  or  color,  before  the  American  people. 


IN  THE  PHILIPPINES 


When  the  Philippine  Islands  passed  from  the  possession  of 
Spain  to  that  of  the  United  States,  there  was  a  change  in  more 
than  the  flag.  Spain  had  sent  soldiers  and  tax-gatherers  to 
the  islands;  Uncle  Sam  sent  road-builders  and  school  teachers. 
One  of  these  school  teachers  was  also  a  newspaper  man;  and 
in  a  book  called  CAYBIGAN  he  gave  a  series  of  vivid  pictures 
of  how  the  coming  generation  of  Filipinos  are  taking  the  first 
step  towards  Americanization. 


THE  STRUGGLES  AND  TRIUMPH  OF 
ISIDRO  DE  LOS  MAESTROS 

BY 

JAMES  HOPPER 

/ — Face  to  Face  with  the  Foe 

RETURNING  to  his  own  town  after  a  morning  spent  in  "  work 
ing  up  "  the  attendance  of  one  of  his  far  and  recalcitrant  bar 
rio-schools,  the  Maestro  of  Balangilang  was  swaying  with 
relaxed  muscle  and  half -closed  eyes  to  the  allegretto  trot  of 
his  little  native  pony,  when  he  pulled  up  with  a  start,  wide 
awake  and  all  his  senses  on  the  alert.  Through  his  som 
nolence,  at  first  in  a  low  hum,  but  fast  rising  in  a  fiendish  cres 
cendo,  there  had  come  a  buzzing  sound,  much  like  that  of  one 
of  the  saw-mills  of  his  California  forests,  and  now,  as  he  sat 
in  the  saddle,  erect  and  tense,  the  thing  ripped  the  air  in 
ragged  tear,  shrieked  vibrating  into  his  ear,  and  finished  its 
course  along  his  spine  in  delicious  irritation. 

"  Oh,  where  am  I?  "  murmured  the  Maestro,  blinking;  but 
between  blinks  he  caught  the  flashing  green  of  the  palay  fields 
and  knew  that  he  was  far  from  the  saw-mills  of  the  Golden 
State.  So  he  raised  his  nose  to  heaven  and  there,  afloat  above 
him  in  the  serene  blue,  was  the  explanation.  It  was  a  kite, 
a  great  locust-shaped  kite,  darting  and  swooping  in  the  hot 
monsoon,  and  from  it,  dropping  plumb,  came  the  abominable 
clamor. 

"  Aha!  "  exclaimed  the  Maestro,  pointing  accusingly  at  the 
thin  line  vaguely  visible  against  the  sky-line  in  a  diagonal  run 
ning  from  the  kite  above  him  ahead  to  a  point  in  the  road. 
"  Aha !  there's  something  at  the  end  of  that ;  there's  Attendance 
at  the  end  of  that!  " 

279 


28o  AMERICANS  ALL 

With  which  significant  remark  he  leaned  forward  in  the 
saddle,  bringing  his  switch  down  with  a  whizz  behind  him. 
The  pony  gave  three  rabbit  leaps  and  then  settled  down  to 
his  drumming  little  trot.  As  they  advanced  the  line  overhead 
dropped  gradually.  Finally  the  Maestro  had  to  swerve  the 
horse  aside  to  save  his  helmet.  He  pulled  up  to  a  walk,  and  a 
few  yards  further  came  to  the  spot  where  string  met  earth  in 
the  expected  Attendance. 

The  Attendance  was  sitting  on  the  ground,  his  legs  spread 
before  him  in  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  each  foot  arched 
in  a  secure  grip  of  a  bunch  of  cogon  grass.  These  legs  were 
bare  as  far  up  as  they  went,  and,  in  fact,  no  trace  of  cloth 
ing  was  reached  until  the  eye  met  the  lower  fringe  of  an  in 
describable  undershirt  modestly  veiling  the  upper  half  of  a 
rotund  little  paunch;  an  indescribable  undershirt,  truly,  for 
observation  could  not  reach  the  thing  itself,  but  only  the  dirt 
incrusting  it  so  that  it  hung  together,  rigid  as  a  knight's  iron 
corslet,  in  spite  of  monstrous  tears  and  rents.  Between  the 
teeth  of  the  Attendance  was  a  long,  thick  cheroot,  wound  about 
with  hemp  fiber,  at  which  he  pulled  with  rounded  mouth. 
Hitched  around  his  right  wrist  was  the  kite  string,  and  between 
his  legs  a  stick  spindled  with  an  extra  hundred  yards.  At  in 
tervals  he  hauled  hand-over-hand  upon  the  taut  line,  and  then 
the  landscape  vibrated  to  the  buzz-saw  song  which  had  so  com- 
pellingly  recalled  the  Maestro  to  his  eternal  pursuit. 

As  the  shadow  of  the  horse  fell  upon  him,  the  Attendance 
brought  his  eyes  down  from  their  heavenly  contemplation,  and 
fixed  them  upon  the  rider.  A  tremor  of  dismay,  mastered  as 
soon  as  born,  flitted  over  him;  then,  silently,  with  careful 
suppression  of  all  signs  of  haste,  he  reached  for  a  big  stone 
with  his  little  yellow  paw,  then  for  a  stick  lying  farther  off. 
Using  the  stone  as  a  hammer,  he  drove  the  stick  into  the  ground 
with  deliberate  stroke,  wound  the  string  around  it  with  ten 
der  solicitude,  and  then,  everything  being  secure,  just  as  the 
Maestro  was  beginning  his  usual  embarrassing  question: 


ISIDRO  DE  LOS  MAESTROS  281 

"  Why  are  you  not  at  school,  eh?  " 

He  drew  up  his  feet  beneath  him,  straightened  up  like  a 
jack-in-a-box,  took  a  hop-skip-jump,  and  with  a  flourish  of 
golden  heels,  flopped  head-first  into  the  roadside  ditch's  rank 
luxuriance. 

"  The  little  devil!  ''  exclaimed  the  disconcerted  Maestro.  He 
dismounted  and,  leading  his  horse,  walked  up  to  the  side  of 
the  ditch.  It  was  full  of  the  water  of  the  last  baguio.  From 
the  edge  of  the  cane-field  on  the  other  side  there  cascaded  down 
the  bank  a  mad  vegetation;  it  carpeted  the  sides,  arched  it 
self  above  in  a  vault,  and  inside  this  recess  the  water  was 
rotting,  green-scummed;  and  a  powerful  fermentation  filled 
the  nostrils  with  hot  fever-smells.  In  the  center  of  the  ditch 
the  broad,  flat  head  of  a  caribao  emerged  slightly  above  the 
water;  the  floating  lilies  made  an  incongruous  wreath  about 
the  great  horns  and  the  beatifically-shut  eyes,  and  the  thick, 
humid  nose  exhaled  ecstasy  in  shuddering  ripplets  over  the 
calm  surface. 

Filled  with  a  vague  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  the  Maestro 
peered  into  the  darkness.  "The  little  devil!  "  he  murmured. 
"He's  somewhere  in  here ;  but  how  am  I  to  get  him,  I'd  like 
to  know.  Do  you  see  him,  eh,  Mathusalem?  "  he  asked  of  the 
stolid  beast  soaking  there  in  bliss. 

Whether  in  answer  to  this  challenge  or  to  some  other 
irritant,  the  animal  slowly  opened  one  eye  and  ponderously 
let  it  fall  shut  again  in  what,  to  the  heated  imagination  of  the 
Maestro,  seemed  a  patronizing  wink.  Its  head  slid  quietly 
along  the  water;  puffs  of  ooze  rose  from  below  and  spread  on 
the  surface.  Then,  in  the  silence  there  rose  a  significant  sound 
— a  soft,  repeated  snapping  of  the  tongue: 

"Cluck,  cluck." 

"Aha!  "  shouted  the  Maestro  triumphantly  to  his  invisible 
audience.  "I  know  where  you  are,  you  scamp;  right  behind 
the  caribao;  come  out  of  there,  pronto,  dale-dale!  " 

But  his  enthusiasm  was  of  short  duration.     To  the  com- 


282  AMERICANS  ALL 

manding  tongue-click  the  caribao  had  stopped  dead-still,  and  a 
silence  heavy  with  defiance  met  the  too-soon  exultant  cries. 
An  insect  in  the  foliage  began  a  creaking  call,  and  then  all  the 
creatures  of  humidity  hidden  there  among  this  fermenting 
vegetation  joined  in  mocking  chorus. 

The  Maestro  felt  a  vague  blush  welling  up  from  the  inner 
most  recesses  of  his  being. 

"I'm  going  to  get  that  kid,"  he  muttered  darkly,  "if  I 
have  to  wait  till — the  coming  of  Common  Sense  to  the  Manila 
office!  By  gum,  he's  the  Struggle  for  Attendance  personified!  " 

He  sat  down  on  the  bank  and  waited.  This  did  not  prove 
interesting.  The  animals  of  the  ditch  creaked  on;  the  caribao 
bubbled  up  the  water  with  his  deep  content;  above,  the 
abandoned  kite  went  through  strange  acrobatics  and  wailed  as 
if  in  pain.  The  Maestro  dipped  his  hand  into  the  water;  it 
was  lukewarm.  "  No  hope  of  a  freeze-out,"  he  murmured 
pensively. 

Behind,  the  pony  began  to  pull  at  the  reins. 

"  Yes,  little  horse,  I'm  tired,  too.  Well,"  he  said  apologeti 
cally,  "  I  hate  to  get  energetic,  but  there  are  circumstances 
which " 

The  end  of  his  sentence  was  lost,  for  he  had  whisked  out 
the  big  Colt's  dissuader  of  ladrones,  that  hung  on  his  belt,  and 
was  firing.  The  six  shots  went  off  like  a  bunch  of  fire-crackers, 
but  far  from  at  random,  for  a  regular  circle  boiled  up  around 
the  dozing  caribao.  The  disturbed  animal  snorted,  and 
again  a  discreet  "  cluck-  cluck  "  rose  in  the  sudden,  astounded 
silence. 

"  This,"  said  the  Maestro,  as  he  calmly  introduced  fresh 
cartridges  into  the  chambers  of  his  smoking  weapon,  "  is 
what  might  be  called  an  application  of  western  solutions  to 
eastern  difficulties." 

Again  he  brought  his  revolver  down,  but  he  raised  it  with 
out  shooting  and  replaced  it  in  its  holster.  From  beneath  the 
caribao's  rotund  belly,  below  the  surface,  an  indistinct  form 


ISIDRO  DE  LOS  MAESTROS  283 

shot  out;  cleaving  the  water  like  a  polliwog  it  glided  for  the 
bank,  and  then  a  black,  round  head  emerged  at  the  feet  of  the 
Maestro. 

"All  right,  bub;  we'll  go  to  school  now,"  said  the  latter, 
nodding  to  the  dripping  figure  as  it  rose  before  him. 

He  lifted  the  sullen  brownie  and  straddled  him  forward  of 
the  saddle,  then  proceeded  to  mount  himself,  when  the  Cap 
ture  began  to  display  marked  agitation.  He  squirmed  and 
twisted,  turned  his  head  back  and  up,  and  finally  a  grunt  es 
caped  him. 

"El  volador." 

"The  kite,  to  be  sure;  we  mustn't  forget  the  kite,"  acqui 
esced  the  Maestro  graciously.  He  pulled  up  the  anchoring  stick 
and  laboriously,  beneath  the  hostilely  critical  eye  of  the  Cap 
ture,  he  hauled  in  the  line  till  the  screeching,  resisting  flying- 
machine  was  brought  to  earth.  Then  he  vaulted  into  the 
saddle. 

The  double  weight  was  a  little  too  much  for  the  pony; 
so  it  was  at  a  dignified  walk  that  the  Maestro,  his  naked,  drip 
ping,  muddy  and  still  defiant  prisoner  a-straddle  in  front  of 
him,  the  captured  kite  passed  over  his  left  arm  like  a  knightly 
shield,  made  his  triumphant  entry  into  the  pueblo. 

II — Heroism  and  Reverses 

When  Maestro  Pablo  rode  down  Rizal-y- Washington  Street 
to  the  schoolhouse  with  his  oozing,  dripping  prize  between  his 
arms,  the  kite,  like  a  knightly  escutcheon  against  his  left  side, 
he  found  that  in  spite  of  his  efforts  at  preserving  a  modest, 
self-deprecatory  bearing,  his  spine  would  stiffen  and  his  nose 
point  upward  in  the  unconscious  manifestations  of  an  internal 
feeling  that  there  was  in  his  attitude  something  picturesquely 
heroic.  Not  since  walking  down  the  California  campus 
one  morning  after  the  big  game  won  three  minutes  before 
blowing  of  the  final  whistle,  by  his  fifty-yard  run-in  of  a  punt, 


284  AMERICANS  ALL 

had  he  been  in  that  posture — at  once  pleasant  and  difficult— 
in  which  one's  vital  concern  is  to  wear  an  humility  sufficiently 
convincing  to  obtain  from  friends  forgiveness  for  the  crime 
of  being  great. 

A  series  of  incidents  immediately  following,  however,  made 
the  thing  quite  easy. 

Upon  bringing  the  new  recruit  into  the  schoolhouse,  to  the 
perfidiously  expressed  delight  of  the  already  incorporated,  the 
Maestro  called  his  native  assistant  to  obtain  the  information 
necessary  to  a  full  matriculation.  At  the  first  question  the 
inquisition  came  to  a  dead-lock.  The  boy  did  not  know  his 
name. 

"  In  Spanish  times,"  the  Assistant  suggested  modestly,  "  we 
called  them  "  de  los  Reyes  "  when  the  father  was  of  the  army, 
and  "  de  la  Cruz  "  when  the  father  was  of  the  church;  but  now, 
we  can  never  know  what  it  is." 

The  Maestro  dashed  to  a  solution.  "All  right,"  he  said 
cheerily.  "  I  caught  him ;  guess  I  can  give  him  a  name.  Call 
him — Isidro  de  los  Maestros." 

And  thus  it  was  that  the  urchin  went  down  on  the  school 
records,  and  on  the  records  of  life  afterward. 

Now,  well  pleased  with  himself,  the  Maestro,  as  is  the  wont, 
of  men  in  such  state,  sought  for  further  enjoyment. 

"  Ask  him,"  he  said  teasingly,  pointing  with  his  chin  at 
the  newly-baptized  but  still  unregenerate  little  savage,  "  why 
he  came  out  of  the  ditch." 

"  He  says  he  was  afraid  that  you  would  steal  the 
kite,"  answered  the  Assistant,  after  some  linguistic  spar 
ring. 

"  Eh?  "  ejaculated  the  surprised  Maestro. 

And  in  his  mind  there  framed  a  picture  of  himself  riding 
along  the  road  with  a  string  between  his  fingers;  and,  follow 
ing  in  the  upper  layers  of  air,  a  buzzing  kite;  and,  down  in 
the  dust  of  the  highway,  an  urchin  trudging  wistfully  after 
the  kite,,  drawn  on  irresistibly,  in  spite  of  his  better  judgment:, 


ISIDRO  DE  LOS  MAESTROS  285 

on  and  on,  horrified  but  fascinated,  up  to  the  yawning  school- 
door. 

It  would  have  been  the  better  way.  "  I  ought  to  go  and 
soak  my  head,"  murmured  the  Maestro  pensively. 

This  was  check  number  one,  but  others  came  in  quick  suc 
cession. 

For  the  morning  after  this  incident  the  Maestro  did  not  find 
Isidro  among  the  weird,  wild  crowd  gathered  into  the  annex 
(a  transformed  sugar  storehouse)  by  the  last  raid  of  the  Muni 
cipal  Police. 

Neither  was  Isidro  there  the  next  day,  nor  the  next. 
And  it  was  not  till  a  week  had  passed  that  the  Maestro  dis 
covered,  with  an  inward  blush  of  shame,  that  his  much- 
longed-for  pupil  was  living  in  the  little  hut  behind  his  own 
house.  There  would  have  been  nothing  shameful  in  the  over 
looking — there  were  seventeen  other  persons  sharing  the  same 
abode — were  it  not  that  the  nipa  front  of  this  human  hive  had 
been  blown  away  by  the  last  baguio,  leaving  an  unobstructed 
view  of  the  interior,  if  it  might  be  called  such.  As  it  was,  the 
Municipal  Police  was  mobilized  at  the  urgent  behest  of  the 
Maestro.  Its  "  cabo,"  flanked  by  two  privates  armed  with 
old  German  needle-guns,  besieged  the  home,  and  after  an  in 
teresting  game  of  hide-and-go-seek,  Isidro  was  finally  caught 
by  one  arm  and  one  ear,  and  ceremoniously  marched  to  school. 
And  there  the  Maestro  asked  him  why  he  had  not  been  at 
tending. 

"  No  hay  pantalones " — there  are  no  pants — Isidro  an 
swered,  dropping  his  eyes  modestly  to  the  ground. 

This  was  check  number  two,  and  unmistakably  so,  for 
was  it  not  a  fact  that  a  civil  commission,  overzealous  in  its 
civilizing  ardor,  had  passed  a  law  commanding  that  every  one 
should  wear,  when  in  public,  "  at  least  one  garment,  preferably 
trousers?  " 

Following  this,  and  an  unsuccessful  plea  upon  the  town 
tailor  who  was  on  a  three  weeks'  vacation  on  account  of  the 


286  AMERICANS  ALL 

death  of  a  fourth  cousin,  the  Maestro  shut  himself  up  a  whole 
day  with  Isidro  in  his  little  nipa  house ;  and  behind  the  closely- 
shut  shutters  engaged  in  some  mysterious  toil.  When  they 
emerged  again  the  next  morning,  Isidro  wended  his  way  to  the 
school  at  the  end  of  the  Maestro 's  arm,  trousered! 

The  trousers,  it  must  be  said,  had  a  certain  cachet  of  dis 
tinction.  They  were  made  of  calico-print,  with  a  design  of  little 
black  skulls  sprinkled  over  a  yellow  background.  Some  parts 
hung  flat  and  limp  as  if  upon  a  scarecrow;  others  pulsed,  like 
a  fire-hose  in  action,  with  the  pressure  of  flesh  compressed  be 
neath,  while  at  other  points  they  bulged  pneumatically  in 
little  foot-balls.  The  right  leg  dropped  to  the  ankle;  the  left 
stopped  discouraged,  a  few  inches  below  the  knee.  The  seams 
looked  like  the  putty  mountain  chains  of  the  geography  class. 
As  the  Maestro  strode  along  he  threw  rapid  glances  at  his  handi 
work,  and  it  was  plain  that  the  emotions  that  moved  him  were 
somewhat  mixed  in  character.  His  face  showed  traces  of  a 
puzzled  diffidence,  as  that  of  a  man  who  has  come  in  sack- 
coat  to  a  full-dress  function;  but  after  all  it  was  satisfaction 
that  predominated,  for  after  this  heroic  effort  he  had  decided 
that  Victory  had  at  last  perched  upon  his  banners. 

And  it  really  looked  so  for  a  time.  Isidro  stayed  at  school 
at  least  during  that  first  day  of  his  trousered  life.  For  when 
the  Maestro,  later  in  the  forenoon  paid  a  visit  to  the  annex, 
he  found  the  Assistant  in  charge  standing  disconcerted  before 
the  urchin  who,  with  eyes  indignant  and  hair  perpendicular 
upon  the  top  of  his  head,  was  evidently  holding  to  his  side  of 
the  argument  with  his  customary  energy. 

Isidro  was  trouserless.  Sitting  rigid  upon  his  bench,  hold 
ing  on  with  both  hands  as  if  in  fear  of  being  removed,  he  dan 
gled  naked  legs  to  the  sight  of  who  might  look. 

"  Que  barbaridad!  "  murmered  the  Assistant  in  limp  de 
jection. 

But  Isidro  threw  at  him  a  look  of  black  hatred.  This 
became  a  tense,  silent  plea  for  justice  as  it  moved  up  for  a 


ISIDRO  DE  LOS  MAESTROS  287 

moment  to  the  Maestro 's  face,  and  then  it  settled  back  upon 
its  first  object  in  frigid  accusation. 

"  Where  are  your  trousers,  Isidro?  "  asked  the  Maestro. 

Isidro  relaxed  his  convulsive  grasp  of  the  bench  with  one 
hand,  canted  himself  slightly  to  one  side  just  long  enough  to 
give  an  instantaneous  view  of  the  trousers,  neatly  folded  and 
spread  between  what  he  was  sitting  with  and  what  he  was 
sitting  on,  then  swung  back  with  the  suddenness  of  a  kodak- 
shutter,  seized  his  seat  with  new  determination,  and  looked 
eloquent  justification  at  the  Maestro. 

"  Why  will  you  not  wear  them?  "  asked  the  latter. 

"  He  says  he  will  not  get  them  dirty,"  said  the  Assistant,  in 
terpreting  the  answer. 

"  Tell  him  when  they  are  dirty  he  can  go  down  to  the 
river  and  wash  them,"  said  the  Maestro. 

Isidro  pondered  over  the  suggestion  for  two  silent  minutes. 
The  prospect  of  a  day  spent  splashing  in  the  lukewarm  waters 
of  the  Hog  he  finally  put  down  as  not  at  all  detestable,  and 
getting  up  to  his  feet: 

"  I  will  put  them  on,"  he  said  gravely. 

Which  he  did  on  the  moment,  with  an  absence  of  hesitation 
as  to  which  was  front  and  which  was  back,  very  flattering  to 
the  Maestro. 

That  Isidro  persevered  during  the  next  week,  the  Maestro 
also  came  to  know.  For  now  regularly  every  evening  as  he 
smoked  and  lounged  upon  his  long,  cane  chair,  trying  to  per 
suade  his  tired  body  against  all  laws  of  physics  to  give  up  a 
little  of  its  heat  to  a  circumambient  atmosphere  of  temperature 
equally  enthusiastic;  as  he  watched  among  the  rafters  of  the 
roof  the  snakes  swallowing  the  rats,  the  rats  devouring  the 
lizards,  the  lizards  snapping  up  the  spiders,  the  spiders  snar 
ing  the  flies  in  eloquent  representation  of  the  life  struggle,  his 
studied  passiveness  would  be  broken  by  strange  sounds  from  the 
dilapidated  hut  at  the  back  of  his  house.  A  voice,  imitative 
of  that  of  the  Third  Assistant  who  taught  the  annex,  hurled 


288  AMERICANS  ALL 

forth  questions,  which  were  immediately  answered  by  another 
voice,  curiously  like  that  of  Isidro. 

Fiercely:  "  Du  yu  ssee  dde  hhett?  " 

Breathlessly:   "  Yiss  I  ssee  dde  hhett." 

Ferociously:    "  Show  me  dde  hhett." 

Eagerly:  "Here  are  dde  hhett." 

Thunderously:   "  Gif  me  dde  hhett." 

Exultantly:  "  I  gif  yu  dde  hhett." 

Then  the  Maestro  would  step  to  the  window  and  look  into 
the  hut  from  which  came  this  Socratic  dialogue.  And  on 
this  wall-less  platform  which  looked  much  like  a  primitive  stage, 
a  singular  action  was  unrolling  itself  in  the  smoky  glimmer  of 
a  two-cent  lamp.  The  Third  Assistant  was  not  there  at  all; 
but  Isidro  was  the  Third  Assistant.  And  the  pupil  was  not 
Isidro,  but  the  witless  old  man  who  was  one  of  the  many 
sharers  of  the  abode.  In  the  voice  of  the  Third  Assistant, 
Isidro  was  hurling  out  the  tremendous  questions;  and,  as  the 
old  gentleman,  who  represented  Isidro,  opened  his  mouth  only 
to  drule  betel-juice,  it  was  Isidro  who,  in  Isidro's  voice,  an 
swered  the  questions.  In  his  role  as  Third  Assistant  he  stood 
with  legs  akimbo  before  the  pupil,  a  bamboo  twig  in  his  hand ; 
as  Isidro  the  pupil,  he  plumped  down  quickly  upon  the  bench 
before  responding.  The  sole  function  of  the  senile  old  man 
seemed  that  of  representing  the  pupil  while  the  question  was 
being  asked,  and  receiving,  in  that  capacity,  a  sharp  cut 
across  the  nose  from  Isidro-the-Third-Assistant's  switch,  at 
which  he  chuckled  to  himself  in  silent  glee  and  druled  ad 
libitum. 

For  several  nights  this  performance  went  on  with  gradual 
increase  of  vocabulary  in  teacher  and  pupil.  But  when  it  had 
reached  the  "  Do  you  see  the  apple-tree?  "  stage,  it  ceased  to 
advance,  marked  time  for  a  while,  and  then  slowly  but  steadily 
began  sliding  back  into  primitive  beginnings.  This  engendered 
in  the  Maestro  a  suspicion  which  became  certainty  when  Isidro 
entered  the  schoolhouse  one  morning  just  before  recess,  between 


ISIDRO  DE  LOS  MAESTROS  289 

two  policemen  at  port  arms.  A  rapid  scrutiny  of  the  roll- 
book  showed  that  he  had  been  absent  a  whole  week. 

"  I  was  at  the  river  cleaning  my  trousers/'  answered  Isidro 
when  put  face  to  face  with  this  curious  fact. 

The  Maestro  suggested  that  the  precious  pantaloons  which, 
by  the  way,  had  been  mysteriously  embellished  by  a  red 
stripe  down  the  right  leg  and  a  green  stripe  down  the  left  leg, 
could  be  cleaned  in  less  than  a  week,  and  that  Saturday  and 
Sunday  were  days  specially  set  aside  in  the  Catechismo  of  the 
Americanos  for  such  little  family  duties. 

Isidro  understood,  and  the  nightly  rehearsals  soon  reached 
the  stage  of: 

"  How  menny  hhetts  hev  yu?  " 

"I  hev  ten  hhetts." 

Then  came  another  arrest  of  development  and  another 
decline,  at  the  end  of  which  Isidro  again  making  his  appear 
ance  flanked  by  two  German  needle-guns,  caused  a  blush  of 
remorse  to  suffuse  the  Maestro  by  explaining  with  frigid  gravity 
that  his  mother  had  given  birth  to  a  little  pickaninny-brother 
and  that,  of  course,  he  had  had  to  help. 

But  significant  events  in  the  family  did  not  stop  there. 
After  birth,  death  stepped  in  for  its  due.  Isidro's  relatives 
began  to  drop  off  in  rapid  sequence — each  demise  demanding 
three  days  of  meditation  in  retirement — till  at  last  the  Maestro, 
who  had  had  the  excellent  idea  of  keeping  upon  paper  a  record 
of  these  unfortunate  occurrences,  was  looking  with  stupor  upon 
a  list  showing  that  Isidro  had  lost,  within  three  weeks,  two 
aunts,  three  grandfathers,  and  five  grandmothers — which,  con 
sidering  that  an  actual  count  proved  the  house  of  bereavement 
still  able  to  boast  of  seventeen  occupants,  was  plainly  an  ex 
aggeration. 

Following  a  long  sermon  from  the  Maestro  in  which  he 
sought  to  explain  to  Isidro  that  he  must  always  tell  the  truth 
for  sundry  philosophical  reasons — a  statement  which  the  First 
Assistant  tactfully  smoothed  to  something  within  range  of 


290  AMERICANS  ALL 

credulity  by  translating  it  that  one  must  not  lie  to  Americanos, 
because  Americanos  do  not  like  it — there  came  a  period  of 
serenity. 

Ill— The  Triumph 

There  came  to  the  Maestro  days  of  peace  and  joy.  Isidro 
was  coming  to  school ;  Isidro  was  learning  English.  Isidro  was 
steady,  Isidro  was  docile,  Isidro  was  positively  so  angelic  that 
there  was  something  uncanny  about  the  situation.  And  with 
Isidro,  other  little  savages  were  being  pruned  into  the  school- 
going  stage  of  civilization.  Helped  by  the  police,  they  were 
pouring  in  from  barrio  and  hacienda;  the  attendance  was  go 
ing  up  by  leaps  and  bounds,  till  at  last  a  circulative  report 
showed  that  Balangilang  had  passed  the  odious  Cabancalan  with 
its  less  strenuous  school-man,  and  left  it  in  the  ruck  by  a  full 
hundred.  The  Maestro  was  triumphant;  his  chest  had  gained 
two  inches  in  expansion.  When  he  met  Isidro  at  recess,  playing 
cibay,  he  murmured  softly:  "You  little  devil;  you  were  At 
tendance  personified,  and  I've  got  you  now."  At  which  Isidro, 
pausing  in  the  act  of  throwing  a  shell  with  the  top  of  his  head 
at  another  shell  on  the  ground,  looked  up  beneath  long  lashes 
in  a  smile  absolutely  seraphic. 

In  the  evening,  the  Maestro,  his  heart  sweet  with  content, 
stood  at  the  window.  These  were  moonlight  nights;  in  the 
grassy  lanes  the  young  girls  played  graceful  Spanish  games, 
winding  like  garlands  to  a  gentle  song;  from  the  shadows  of 
the  huts  came  the  tinkle-tinkle  of  serenading  guitars  and  yearn 
ing  notes  of  violins  wailing  despairing  love.  And  Isidro,  seated 
on  the  bamboo  ladder  of  his  house,  went  through  an  indepen 
dent  performance.  He  sang  "  Good-night,  Ladies,"  the  last 
song  given  to  the  school,  sang  it  in  soft  falsetto,  with  lan 
guorous  drawls,  and  never-ending  organ  points,  over  and  over 
again,  till  it  changed  character  gradually,  dropping  into  a 
wailing  minor,  an  endless  croon  full  of  obscure  melancholy  of 
a  race  that  dies. 


ISIDRO  DE  LOS  MAESTROS  291 

"  Goo-oo-oo  nigh-igh-igh  loidies-ies-ies;  goo-oo-oo  nigh-igh- 
igh  loidies-ies-ies ;  goo-oo-oo-oo  nigh-igh-igh  loidies-ies-ies-ies," 
he  repeated  and  repeated,  over  and  over  again,  till  the  Maes 
tro  's  soul  tumbled  down  and  down  abysses  of  maudlin  tender 
ness,  and  Isidro's  chin  fell  upon  his  chest  in  a  last  drawling, 
sleepy  note.  At  which  he  shook  himself  together  and  began 
the  next  exercise,  a  recitation,  all  of  one  piece  from  first  to 
last  syllable,  in  one  high,  monotonous  note,  like  a  mechanical 
doll  saying  "  papa-mama." 

"  Oh-look-et-de-moon-she-ees-shinin-up-theyre-oh-mudder-she 
look-like-a-lom-in-de-ayre-lost-night-she-was-smalleyre-  on-joos 
like-a-bow-boot-now-she-ees-biggerr-on-rrraon-like-an-O." 

Then  a  big  gulp  of  air  and  again: 

"  Oh-look-et-de-moon-she-ees-shinin-up-theyre, "  etc. 

An  hour  of  this,  and  he  skipped  from  the  lyric  to  the  patrio 
tic,  and  then  it  was: 

"  I-loof-dde-name-off-Wash-ing-ton, 

I-loof-my-coontrrree-tow, 
I-loof-dde-fleg-dde-dear-owl-fleg, 
Off-rridd-on-whit-on-bloo-oo-oo ! " 

By  this  time  the  Maestro  was  ready  to  go  to  bed,  and  long 
in  the  torpor  of  the  tropic  night  there  came  to  him,  above  the 
hum  of  the  mosquitoes  fighting  at  the  net,  the  soft,  wailing 
croon  of  Isidro,  back  at  his  "  Goo-oo-oo  nigh-igh-igh  loidies- 
ies-ies." 

These  were  days  of  ease  and  beauty  to  the  Maestro,  and  he 
enjoyed  them  the  more  when  a  new  problem  came  to  give 
action  to  his  resourceful  brain. 

The  thing  was  this:  For  three  days  there  had  not  been 
one  funeral  in  Balangilang. 

In  other  climes,  in  other  towns,  this  might  have  been  a 
source  of  congratulation,  perhaps,  but  not  in  Balangilang. 
There  were  rumors  of  cholera  in  the  towns  to  the  north,  and 
the  Maestro,  as  president  of  the  Board  of  Health,  was  on  the 
watch  for  it.  Five  deaths  a  day,  experience  had  taught  him, 


292  AMERICANS  ALL 

was  the  healthy  average  for  the  town;  and  this  sudden  ces 
sation  of  public  burials — he  could  not  belive  that  dying  had 
stopped — was  something  to  make  him  suspicious. 

It  was  over  this  puzzling  situation  that  he  was  pondering 
at  the  morning  recess,  when  his  attention  was  taken  from  it 
by  a  singular  scene. 

The  "  batas  "  of  the  school  were  flocking  and  pushing  and 
jolting  at  the  door  of  the  basement  which  served  as  stable  for 
the  municipal  caribao.  Elbowing  his  way  to  the  spot,  the  Maes 
tro  found  Isidro  at  the  entrance,  gravely  taking  up  an  ad 
mission  of  five  shells  from  those  who  would  enter.  Business 
seemed  to  be  brisk;  Isidro  had  already  a  big  bandana  hand 
kerchief  bulging  with  the  receipts  which  were  now  overflowing 
into  a  great  tao  hat,  obligingly  loaned  him  by  one  of  his  ad 
mirers,  as  one  by  one,  those  lucky  enough  to  have  the  price 
filed  in,  feverish  curiosity  upon  their  faces. 

The  Maestro  thought  that  it  might  be  well  to  go  in  also, 
which  he  did  without  paying  admission.  The  disappointed 
gate-keeper  followed  him.  The  Maestro  found  himself  before 
a  little  pink-and-blue  tissue-paper  box,  frilled  with  paper  ro 
settes. 

"  What  have  you  in  there?  "  asked  the  Maestro. 

"  My  brother,"  answered  Isidro  sweetly. 

He  cast  his  eyes  to  the  ground  and  watched  his  big  toe 
drawing  vague  figures  in  the  earth,  then  appealing  to  the  First 
Assistant  who  was  present  by  this  time,  he  added  in  the  tone 
of  virtue  which  will  be  modest: 

"  Maestro  Pablo  does  not  like  it  when  I  do  not  come  to 
school  on  account  of  a  funeral,  so  I  brought  him  (pointing 
to  the  little  box)  with  me." 

"Well,  I'll  be "  was  the  only  comment  the  Maestro 

found  adequate  at  the  moment. 

"  It  is  my  little  pickaninny-brother,"  went  on  Isidro,  becom 
ing  alive  to  the  fact  that  he  was  a  center  of  interest,  "  and 
he  died  last  night  of  the  great  sickness." 


ISIDRO  DE  LOS  MAESTROS  293 

"  The  great  what?  "  ejaculated  the  Maestro  who  had  caught 
a  few  words. 

"  The  great  sickness,"  explained  the  Assistant.  "  That  is 
the  name  by  which  these  ignorant  people  call  the  cholera." 

For  the  next  two  hours  the  Maestro  was  very  busy. 

Firstly  he  gathered  the  "  batas  "  who  had  been  rich  enough 
to  attend  Isidro's  little  show  and  locked  them  up — with  the 
impresario  himself — in  the  little  town-jail  close  by.  Then, 
after  a  vivid  exhortation  upon  the  beauties  of  boiling  water 
and  reporting  disease,  he  dismissed  the  school  for  an  indefinite 
period.  After  which,  impressing  the  two  town  prisoners,  now 
temporarily  out  of  home,  he  shouldered  Isidro's  pretty  box, 
tramped  to  the  cemetery  and  directed  the  digging  of  a  grave 
six  feet  deep.  When  the  earth  had  been  scraped  back  upon  the 
lonely  little  object,  he  returned  to  town  and  transferred  the 
awe-stricken  playgoers  to  his  own  house,  where  a  strenuous 
performance  took  place. 

Tolio,  his  boy,  built  a  most  tremendous  fire  outside  and  set 
upon  it  all  the  pots  and  pans  and  caldrons  and  cans  of  his 
kitchen  arsenal,  filled  with  water.  When  these  began  to  gurgle 
and  steam,  the  Maestro  set  himself  to  stripping  the  horrified 
bunch  in  his  room ;  one  by  one  he  threw  the  garments  out  of  the 
window  to  Tolio  who,  catching  them,  stuffed  them  into  the  re 
ceptacles,  poking  down  their  bulging  protest  with  a  big  stick. 
Then  the  Maestro  mixed  an  awful  brew  in  an  old  oil-can,  and 
taking  the  brush  which  was  commonly  used  to  sleek  up  his 
little  pony,  he  dipped  it  generously  into  the  pungent  stuff  and 
began  an  energetic  scrubbing  of  his  now  absolutely  panic- 
stricken  wards.  When  he  had  done  this  to  his  satisfaction 
and  thoroughly  to  their  discontent,  he  let  them  put  on  their  still 
steaming  garments  and  they  slid  out  of  the  house,  aseptic 
as  hospitals. 

Isidro  he  kept  longer.  He  lingered  over  him  with  loving  and 
strenuous  care,  and  after  he  had  him  externally  clean,  pro- 


294  AMERICANS  ALL 

ceeded  to  dose  him  internally  from  a  little  red  bottle.  Isidro 
took  everything — the  terrific  scrubbing,  the  exaggerated  dosing, 
the  ruinous  treatment  of  his  pantaloons — with  wonder-eyed 
serenity. 

When  all  this  was  finished  the  Maestro  took  the  urchin  into 
the  dining-room  and,  seating  him  on  his  best  bamboo  chair,  he 
courteously  offered  him  a  fine,  dark  perfecto. 

The  next  instant  he  was  suffused  with  the  light  of  a  new 
revelation.  For,  stretching  out  his  hard  little  claw  to  receive  the 
gift,  the  little  man  had  shot  at  him  a  glance  so  mild,  so 
wistful,  so  brown-eyed,  filled  with  such  mixed  admiration, 
trust,  and  appeal,  that  a  queer  softness  had  risen  in  the  Maes 
tro  from  somewhere  down  in  the  regions  of  his  heel,  up  and  up, 
quietly,  like  the  mercury  in  the  thermometer,  till  it  had  flowed 
through  his  whole  body  and  stood  still,  its  high-water  mark 
a  little  lump  in  his  throat. 

"  Why,  Lord  bless  us-ones,  Isidro,"  said  the  Maestro  quietly. 
"  We're  only  a  child  after  all;  mere  baby,  my  man.  And  don't 
we  like  to  go  to  school?  " 

"  Senor  Pablo,"  asked  the  boy,  looking  up  softly  into  the 
Maestro's  still  perspiring  visage,  "  Senor  Pablo,  is  it  true  that 
there  will  be  no  school  because  of  the  great  sickness?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  true,"  answered  the  Maestro.  "  No  school  for 
a  long,  long  time." 

Then  Isidro 's  mouth  began  to  twitch  queerly,  and  suddenly 
throwing  himself  full-length  upon  the  floor,  he  hurled  out  from 
somewhere  within  him  a  long,  tremulous  wail. 


JAMES  MERLE  HOPPER 

James  Merle  Hopper  was  born  in  Paris,  France.  His  father 
was  American,  his  mother  French;  their  son  James  was  born 
July  23,  1876.  In  1887  his  parents  came  to  America,  and 
settled  in  California.  James  Hopper  attended  the  University 
of  California,  graduating  in  1898.  He  is  still  remembered 
there  as  one  of  the  grittiest  football  players  who  ever  played 
on  the  'Varsity  team.  Then  came  a  course  in  the  law  school  of 
that  university,  and  admission  to  the  California  bar  in  1900. 
All  this  reads  like  the  biography  of  a  lawyer:  so  did  the  early 
life  of  James  Russell  Lowell,  and  of  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes: 
they  were  all  admitted  to  the  bar,  but  they  did  not  become 
lawyers.  James  Hopper  had  done  some  newspaper  work  for 
San  Francisco  papers  while  he  was  in  law  school,  and  the  love 
of  writing  had  taken  hold  of  him.  In  the  meantime  he  had 
married  Miss  Mattie  E.  Leonard,  and  as  literature  did  not  yet 
provide  a  means  of  support,  he  became  an  instructor  in  French 
at  the  University  u.  California. 

With  the  close  of  the  Spanish-American  War  came  the  call 
for  thousands  of  Americans  to  go  to  the  Philippines  as  school 
masters.  This  appealed  to  him,  and  he  spent  the  years  1902- 
03  in  the  work  that  Kipling  thus  describes  in  "  The  White 
Man's  Burden  ": 

To  wait  in  heavy  harness 

On  fluttered  folk  and  wild— 
Your  new-caught  sullen  peoples, 

Half  devil  and  half  child. 

His  experiences  here  furnished  the  material  for  a  group  of 
short  stories  dealing  picturesquely  with  the  Filipinos  in  their 
first  contact  with  American  civilization.  These  were  published 

295 


296  AMERICANS  ALL 

in  McClure's,  and  afterwards  collected  in  book  form  under  the 
title  Caybigan. 

In  1903  James  Hopper  returned  to  the  United  States,  and 
for  a  time  was  on  the  editorial  staff  of  McClure's.  Later  in 
collaboration  with  Fred  R.  Bechdolt  he  wrote  a  remarkable 
book,  entitled  "  poop  ".  This  is  the  number  of  a  convict  in  an 
American  prison,  and  the  book  exposes  the  system  of  spying, 
of  treachery,  of  betrayal,  that  a  convict  must  identify  himself 
with  in  order  to  become  a  "  trusty."  His  next  book  was  a 
college  story,  The  Freshman.  This  was  followed  by  a  volume 
of  short  stories,  What  Happened  in  the  Night.  These  are 
stories  of  child  life,  but  intended  for  older  readers;  they  are 
very  successful  in  reproducing  the  imaginative  world  in  which 
children  live.  In  1915  and  1916  he  acted  as  a  war  correspon 
dent  for  Collier's,  first  with  the  American  troops  in  Mexico 
in  pursuit  of  Villa,  and  later  in  France.  His  home  is  at  Car- 
mel,  California. 


THEY  WHO  BRING  DREAMS 
TO  AMERICA 


"  No  wonder  this  America  of  ours  is  big.  We  draw  the  brave 
ones  from  the  old  lands,  the  brave  ones  whose  dreams  are  like 
the  guiding  sign  that  was  given  to  the  Israelites  of  old — a 
pillar  of  cloud  by  day,  a  pillar  of  fire  by  night"  "  The  Citi 
zen  "  is  a  story  of  a  brave  man  who  followed  his  dream  over 
land  and  sea,  until  it  brought  him  to  America,  a  fortunate 
event  for  him  and  for  us. 


THE  CITIZEN 

BY 

JAMES  FRANCIS  DWYER 

THE  President  of  the  United  States  was  speaking.  His  au 
dience  comprised  two  thousand  foreign-born  men  who  had  just 
been  admitted  to  citizenship.  They  listened  intently,  their 
faces,  aglow  with  the  light  of  a  new-born  patriotism,  upturned 
to  the  calm,  intellectual  face  of  the  first  citizen  of  the  country 
they  now  claimed  as  their  own. 

Here  and  there  among  the  newly-made  citizens  were  wives 
and  children.  The  women  were  proud  of  their  men.  They 
looked  at  them  from  time  to  time,  their  faces  showing  pride  and 
awe. 

One  little  woman,  sitting  immediately  in  front  of  the  Presi 
dent,  held  the  hand  of  a  big,  muscular  mac  and  stroked  it 
softly.  The  big  man  was  looking  at  the  speaker  with  great 
blue  eyes  that  were  the  eyes  of  a  dreamer. 

The  President's  words  came  clear  and  distinct: 

You  were  drawn  across  the  ocean  by  some  beckoning  finger 
of  hope,  by  some  belief,  by  some  vision  of  a  new  kind  of  jus 
tice,  by  some  expectation  of  a  better  kind  of  life.  You  dreamed 
dreams  of  this  country,  and  I  hope  you  brought  the  dreams 
with  you.  A  man  enriches  the  country  to  which  he  brings 
dreams,  and  you  who  have  brought  them  have  enriched  America. 

The  big  man  made  a  curious  choking  noise  and  his  wife 
breathed  a  soft  "  Hush!  "  The  giant  was  strangely  affected. 

The  President  continued: 

No  doubt  you  have  been  disappointed  in  some  of  us,  but  re 
member  this,  if  we  have  grown  at  all  poor  in  the  ideal,  you 

299 


300  AMERICANS  ALL 

brought  some  of  it  with  you.  A  man  does  not  go  out  to  seek 
the  thing  that  is  not  in  him.  A  man  does  not  hope  for  the 
thing  that  he  does  not  believe  in,  and  if  some  of  us  have  for 
gotten  what  America  believed  in,  you  at  any  rate  imported  in 
your  own  hearts  a  renewal  of  the  belief.  Each  of  you,  I  am 
sure,  brought  a  dream,  a  glorious,  shining  dream,  a  dream 
worth  more  than  gold  or  silver,  and  that  is  the  reason  that  I, 
for  one,  make  you  welcome. 

The  big  man's  eyes  were  fixed.  His  wife  shook  him  gently, 
but  he  did  not  heed  her.  He  was  looking  through  the  presi 
dential  rostrum,  through  the  big  buildings  behind  it,  looking 
out  over  leagues  of  space  to  a  snow-swept  village  that  huddled 
on  an  island  in  the  Beresina,  the  swift-flowing  tributary  of 
the  mighty  Dnieper,  an  island  that  looked  like  a  black  bone 
stuck  tight  in  the  maw  of  the  stream. 

It  was  in  the  little  village  on  the  Beresina  that  the  Dream 
came  to  Ivan  Berloff,  Big  Ivan  of  the  Bridge. 

The  Dream  came  in  the  spring.  All  great  dreams  come  in 
the  spring,  and  the  Spring  Maiden  who  brought  Big  Ivan's 
Dream  was  more  than  ordinarily  beautiful.  She  swept  up  the 
Beresina,  trailing  wondrous  draperies  of  vivid  green.  Her  feet 
touched  the  snow-hardened  ground,  and  armies  of  little  white 
and  blue  flowers  sprang  up  in  her  footsteps.  Soft  breezes  es 
corted  her,  velvety  breezes  that  carried  the  aromas  of  the  far- 
off  places  from  which  they  came,  places  far  to  the  southward, 
and  more  distant  towns  beyond  the  Black  Sea  whose  people 
were  not  under  the  sway  of  the  Great  Czar. 

The  father  of  Big  Ivan,  who  had  fought  under  Prince  Men- 
shikov  at  Alma  fifty-five  years  before,  hobbled  out  to  see  the 
sunbeams  eat  up  the  snow  hummocks  that  hid  in  the  shady 
places,  and  he  told  his  son  it  was  the  most  wonderful  spring 
he  had  ever  seen. 

"  The  little  breezes  are  hot  and  sweet,"  he  said,  sniffing 
hungrily  with  his  face  turned  toward  the  south.  "  I  know 
them,  Ivan!  I  know  them!  They  have  the  spice  odor  that  I 


THE  CITIZEN  301 

sniffed  on  the  winds  that  came  to  us  when  we  lay  in  the 
trenches  at  Balaklava.  Praise  God  for  the  warmth!  " 

And  that  day  the  Dream  came  to  Big  Ivan  as  he  plowed. 
It  was  a  wonder  dream.  It  sprang  into  his  brain  as  he  walked 
behind  the  plow,  and  for  a  few  minutes  he  quivered  as  the  big 
bridge  quivers  when  the  Beresina  sends  her  ice  squadrons  to 
hammer  the  arches.  It  made  his  heart  pound  mightily,  and  his 
lips  and  throat  became  very  dry. 

Big  Ivan  stopped  at  the  end  of  the  furrow  and  tried  to  dis 
cover  what  had  brought  the  Dream.  Where  had  it  come  from? 
Why  had  it  clutched  him  so  suddenly?  Was  he  the  only  man 
in  the  village  to  whom  it  had  come? 

Like  his  father,  he  sniffed  the  sweet-smelling  breezes.  He 
thrust  his  great  hands  into  the  sunbeams.  He  reached  down 
and  plucked  one  of  a  bunch  of  white  flowers  that  had  sprung 
up  overnight.  The  Dream  was  born  of  the  breezes  and  the 
sunshine  and  the  spring  flowers.  It  came  from  them  and  it 
had  sprung  into  his  mind  because  he  was  young  and  strong. 
He  knew!  It  couldn't  come  to  his  father  or  Donkov,  the 
tailor,  or  Poborino,  the  smith.  They  were  old  and  weak, 
and  Ivan's  dream  was  one  that  called  for  youth  and 
strength. 

"Ay,  for  youth  and  strength,"  he  muttered  as  he  gripped 
the  plow.  "And  I  have  it!  " 

That  evening  Big  Ivan  of  the  Bridge  spoke  to  his  wife,  Anna, 
a  little  woman,  who  had  a  sweet  face  and  a  wealth  of  fair 
hair. 

"Wife,  we  are  going  away  from  here,"  he  said. 

"  Where  are  we  going,  Ivan?  "  she  asked. 

"  Where  do  you  think,  Anna?  "  he  said,  looking  down  at 
her  as  she  stood  by  his  side. 

"  To  Bobruisk,"  she  murmured. 

"  No." 

"  Farther?  " 

"Ay,  a  long  way  farther." 


302  AMERICANS  ALL 

Fear  sprang  into  her  soft  eyes.  Bobruisk  was  eighty-nine 
versts  away,  yet  Ivan  said  they  were  going  farther. 

"  We — we  are  not  going  to  Minsk?  "  she  cried. 

"  Aye,  and  beyond  Minsk!  " 

"Ivan,  tell  me!  "  she  gasped.  "Tell  me  where  we  are 
going!  " 

"  We  are  going  to  America." 

"  To  America?  " 

"Yes,  to  America!  " 

Big  Ivan  of  the  Bridge  lifted  up  his  voice  when  he  cried  out 
the  words  "  To  America,"  and  then  a  sudden  fear  sprang  upon 
him  as  those  words  dashed  through  the  little  window  out  into 
the  darkness  of  the  village  street.  Was  he  mad?  America  was 
8,000  versts  away!  It  was  far  across  the  ocean,  a  place  that 
was  only  a  name  to  him,  a  place  where  he  knew  no  one.  He 
wondered  in  the  strange  little  silence  that  followed  his  words 
if  the  crippled  son  of  Poborino,  the  smith,  had  heard  him.  The 
cripple  would  jeer  at  him  if  the  night  wind  had  carried  the 
words  to  his  ear. 

Anna  remained  staring  at  her  big  husband  for  a  few  minutes, 
then  she  sat  down  quietly  at  his  side.  There  was  a  strange 
look  in  his  big  blue  eyes,  the  look  of  a  man  to  whom  has  come 
a  vision,  the  look  which  came  into  the  eyes  of  those  shepherds 
of  Judea  long,  long  ago. 

"  What  is  it,  Ivan?  "  she  murmured  softly,  patting  his  big 
hand.  "  Tell  me." 

And  Big  Ivan  of  the  Bridge,  slow  of  tongue,  told  of  the 
Dream.  To  no  one  else  would  he  have  told  it.  Anna  under 
stood.  She  had  a  way  of  patting  his  hands  and  saying  soft 
things  when  his  tongue  could  not  find  words  to  express  his 
thoughts. 

Ivan  told  how  the  Dream  had  come  to  him  as  he  plowed. 
He  told  her  how  it  had  sprung  upon  him,  a  wonderful  dream 
born  of  the  soft  breezes,  of  the  sunshine,  of  the  sweet  smell 
of  the  upturned  sod  and  of  his  own  strength.  "  It  wouldn't 


THE  CITIZEN  303 

come  to  weak  men,"  he  said,  baring  an  arm  that  showed  great 
snaky  muscles  rippling  beneath  the  clear  skin.  "  It  is  a  dream 
that  comes  only  to  those  who  are  strong  and  those  who  want— 
who  want  something  that  they  haven't  got."  Then  in  a  lower 
voice  he  said:  "  What  is  it  that  we  want,  Anna?  " 

The  little  wife  looked  out  into  the  darkness  with  fear-filled 
eyes.  There  were  spies  even  there  in  that  little  village  on  the 
Beresina,  and  it  was  dangerous  to  say  words  that  might  be 
construed  into  a  reflection  on  the  Government.  But  she  an 
swered  Ivan.  She  stooped  and  whispered  one  word  into  his 
ear,  and  he  slapped  his  thigh  with  his  big  hand. 

"  Ay,"  he  cried.  "  That  is  what  we  want!  You  and  I  and 
millions  like  us  want  it,  and  over  there,  Anna,  over  there  we 
will  get  it.  It  is  the  country  where  a  muzhik  is  as  good  as 
a  prince  of  the  blood!  " 

Anna  stood  up,  took  a  small  earthenware  jar  from  a  side 
shelf,  dusted  it  carefully  and  placed  it  upon  the  mantel.  From 
a  knotted  cloth  about  her  neck  she  took  a  ruble  and  dropped 
the  coin  into  the  jar.  Big  Ivan  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"  It  is  to  make  legs  for  your  Dream,"  she  explained.  "  It  is 
many  versts  to  America,  and  one  rides  on  rubles." 

"  You  are  a  good  wife,"  he  said.  "  I  was  afraid  that  you 
might  laugh  at  me." 

"  It  is  a  great  dream,"  she  murmured.  "  Come,  we  will  go 
to  sleep." 

The  Dream  maddened  Ivan  during  the  days  that  followed. 
It  pounded  within  his  brain  as  he  followed  the  plow.  It  bred 
a  discontent  that  made  him  hate  the  little  village,  the  swift- 
flowing  Beresina  and  the  gray  stretches  that  ran  toward  Mo 
gilev.  He  wanted  to  be  moving,  but  Anna  had  said  that  one 
rode  on  rubles,  and  rubles  were  hard  to  find. 

And  in  some  mysterious  way  the  village  became  aware  of  the 
secret.  Donkov,  the  tailor,  discovered  it.  Donkov  lived  in 
one-half  of  the  cottage  occupied  by  Ivan  and  Anna,  and  Don 
kov  had  long  ears.  The  tailor  spread  the  news,  and  Poborino, 


304  AMERICANS  ALL 

the  smith,  and  Yanansk,  the  baker,  would  jeer  at  Ivan  as  he 
passed. 

"  When  are  you  going  to  America?  "  they  would  ask. 

"  Soon,"  Ivan  would  answer. 

"Take  us  with  you!  "  they  would  cry  in  chorus. 

"  It  is  no  place  for  cowards,"  Ivan  would  answer.  "  It 
is  a  long  way,  and  only  brave  men  can  make  the  journey." 

"  Are  you  brave?  "  the  baker  screamed  one  day  as  he 
went  by. 

"  I  am  brave  enough  to  want  liberty!  "  cried  Ivan  angrily. 
"  I  am  brave  enough  to  want " 

"Be  careful!  Be  careful!  "  interrupted  the  smith.  "A 
long  tongue  has  given  many  a  man  a  train  journey  that  he  never 
expected." 

That  night  Ivan  and  Anna  counted  the  rubles  in  the  earthen 
ware  pot.  The  giant  looked  down  at  his  wife  with  a  gloomy 
face,  but  she  smiled  and  patted  his  hand. 

"  It  is  slow  work,"  he  said. 

"We  must  be  patient,"  she  answered.  "You  have  the 
Dream." 

"  Ay,"  he  said.    "  I  have  the  Dream." 

Through  the  hot,  languorous  summertime  the  Dream  grew 
within  the  brain  of  Big  Ivan.  He  saw  visions  in  the  smoky 
haze  that  hung  above  the  Beresina.  At  times  he  would  stand, 
hoe  in  hand,  and  look  toward  the  west,  the  wonderful  west 
into  which  the  sun  slipped  down  each  evening  like  a  coin 
dropped  from  the  fingers  of  the  dying  day. 

Autumn  came,  and  the  fretful  whining  winds  that  came  down 
from  the  north  chilled  the  Dream.  The  winds  whispered  of 
the  coming  of  the  Snow  King,  and  the  river  grumbled  as  it 
listened.  Big  Ivan  kept  out  of  the  way  of  Poborino,  the 
smith,  and  Yanansk,  the  baker.  The  Dream  was  still  with 
him,  but  autumn  is  a  bad  time  for  dreams. 

Winter  came,  and  the  Dream  weakened.  It  was  only  the 
earthenware  pot  that  kept  it  alive,  the  pot  into  which  the 


THE  CITIZEN  305 

industrious  Anna  put  every  coin  that  could  be  spared.  Often 
Big  Ivan  would  stare  at  the  pot  as  he  sat  beside  the  stove. 
The  pot  was  the  cord  which  kept  the  Dream  alive. 

"  You  are  a  good  woman,  Anna,"  Ivan  would  say  again 
and  again.  "  It  was  you  who  thought  of  saving  the 
rubles." 

"  But  it  was  you  who  dreamed,"  she  would  answer.  "  Wait 
for  the  spring,  husband  mine.  Wait." 

It  was  strange  how  the  spring  came  to  the  Beresina  that  year. 
It  sprang  upon  the  flanks  of  winter  before  the  Ice  King  had 
given  the  order  to  retreat  into  the  fastnesses  of  the  north.  It 
swept  up  the  river  escorted  by  a  million  little  breezes,  and 
housewives  opened  their  windows  and  peered  out  with  surprise 
upon  their  faces.  A  wonderful  guest  had  come  to  them  and 
found  them  unprepared. 

Big  Ivan  of  the  Bridge  was  fixing  a  fence  in  the  meadow  on 
the  morning  the  Spring  Maiden  reached  the  village.  For  a 
little  while  he  was  not  aware  of  her  arrival.  His  mind  was 
upon  his  work,  but  suddenly  he  discovered  that  he  was  hot, 
and  he  took  off  his  overcoat.  He  turned  to  hang  the  coat  upon 
a  bush,  then  he  sniffed  the  air,  and  a  puzzled  look  came  upon 
his  face.  He  sniffed  again,  hurriedly,  hungrily.  He  drew  in 
great  breaths  of  it,  and  his  eyes  shone  with  a  strange  light.  It 
was  wonderful  air.  It  brought  life  to  the  Dream.  It  rose 
up  within  him,  ten  times  more  lusty  than  on  the  day  it  was 
born,  and  his  limbs  trembled  as  he  drew  in  the  hot,  scented 
breezes  that  breed  the  Wanderlust  and  shorten  the  long  trails 
of  the  world. 

Big  Ivan  clutched  his  coat  and  ran  to  the  little  cottage.  He 
burst  through  the  door,  startling  Anna,  who  was  busy  with  her 
housework. 

"  The  Spring!  "  he  cried.    "  The  Spring!  " 

He  took  her  arm  and  dragged  her  to  the  door.  Standing  to 
gether  they  sniffed  the  sweet  breezes.  In  silence  they  listened 
to  the  song  of  the  river.  The  Beresina  had  changed  from  a 


3o6  AMERICANS  ALL 

whining,  fretful  tune  into  a  lilting,  sweet  song  that  would  set 
the  legs  of  lovers  dancing.  Anna  pointed  to  a  green  bud  on  a 
bush  beside  the  door. 

"  It  came  this  minute,"  she  murmured. 

"  Yes,"  said  Ivan.  "  The  little  fairies  brought  it  there  to 
show  us  that  spring  has  come  to  stay." 

Together  they  turned  and  walked  to  the  mantel.  Big  Ivan 
took  up  the  earthenware  pot,  carried  it  to  the  table,  and  spilled 
its  contents  upon  the  well-scrubbed  boards.  He  counted  while 
Anna  stood  beside  him,  her  fingers  clutching  his  coarse  blouse. 
It  was  a  slow  business,  because  Ivan's  big  blunt  fingers  were 
not  used  to  such  work,  but  it  was  over  at  last.  He  stacked 
the  coins  into  neat  piles,  then  he  straightened  himself  and 
turned  to  the  woman  at  his  side. 

"  It  is  enough,"  he  said  quietly.  "  We  will  go  at  once.  If 
it  was  not  enough,  we  would  have  to  go  because  the  Dream 
is  upon  me  and  I  hate  this  place." 

"  As  you  say,"  murmured  Anna.  "  The  wife  of  Littin,  the 
butcher,  will  buy  our  chairs  and  our  bed.  I  spoke  to  her 
yesterday." 

Poborino,  the  smith;  his  crippled  son;  Yanansk,  the  baker; 
Dankov,  the  tailor,  and  a  score  of  others  were  out  upon  the 
village  street  on  the  morning  that  Big  Ivan  and  Anna  set  out. 
They  were  inclined  to  jeer  at  Ivan,  but  something  upon  the 
face  of  the  giant  made  them  afraid.  Hand  in  hand  the  big  man 
and  his  wife  walked  down  the  street,  their  faces  turned  toward 
Bobruisk,  Ivan  balancing  upon  his  head  a  heavy  trunk  that 
no  other  man  in  the  village  could  have  lifted. 

At  the  end  of  the  street  a  stripling  with  bright  eyes  and 
yellow  curls  clutched  the  hand  of  Ivan  and  looked  into  his 
face. 

"  I  know  what  is  sending  you,"  he  cried. 

"  Ay,  you  know,"  said  Ivan,  looking  into  the  eyes  of  the 
other. 

"  It  came  to  me  yesterday,"  murmured  the  stripling.     "  I 


THE  CITIZEN  307 

got  it  from  the  breezes.  They  are  free,  so  are  the  birds  and 
the  little  clouds  and  the  river.  I  wish  I  could  go." 

"  Keep  your  dream/'  said  Ivan  softly.  "  Nurse  it,  for  it  is 
the  dream  of  a  man." 

Anna,  who  was  crying  softly,  touched  the  blouse  of  the  boy. 
"  At  the  back  of  our  cottage,  near  the  bush  that  bears  the  red 
berries,  a  pot  is  buried,"  she  said.  "  Dig  it  up  and  take  it 
home  with  you  and  when  you  have  a  kopeck  drop  it  in.  It  is 
a  good  pot." 

The  stripling  understood.  He  stooped  and  kissed  the  hand 
of  Anna,  and  Big  Ivan  patted  him  upon  the  back.  They  were 
brother  dreamers  and  they  understood  each  other. 

Boris  Lugan  has  sung  the  song  of  the  versts  that  eat  up  one's 
courage  as  well  as  the  leather  of  one's  shoes. 

"  Versts !    Versts !    Scores  and  scores  of  them ! 
Versts  !    Versts  !    A  million  or  more  of  them  ! 
Dust !    Dust !    And  the  devils  who  play  in  it, 
Blinding  us  fools  who  forever  must  stay  in  it." 

Big  Ivan  and  Anna  faced  the  long  versts  to  Bobruisk,  but 
they  were  not  afraid  of  the  dust  devils.  They  had  the  Dream. 
It  made  their  hearts  light  and  took  the  weary  feeling  from  their 
feet.  They  were  on  their  way.  America  was  a  long,  long 
journey,  but  they  had  started,  and  every  verst  they  covered 
lessened  the  number  that  lay  between  them  and  the  Promised 
Land. 

"  I  am  glad  the  boy  spoke  to  us,"  said  Anna. 

"  And  I  am  glad,"  said  Ivan.  "  Some  day  he  will  come  and 
eat  with  us  in  America." 

They  came  to  Bobruisk.  Holding  hands,  they  walked  into 
it  late  one  afternoon.  They  were  eighty-nine  versts  from  the 
little  village  on  the  Beresina,  but  they  were  not  afraid.  The 
Dream  spoke  to  Ivan,  and  his  big  hand  held  the  hand  of 
Anna.  The  railway  ran  through  Bobruisk,  and  that  evening 
they  stood  and  looked  at  the  shining  rails  that  went  out  in 


308  AMERICANS  ALL 

the  moonlight  like  silver  tongs  reaching  out  for  a  low-hanging 
star. 

And  they  came  face  to  face  with  the  Terror  that  evening, 
the  Terror  that  had  helped  the  spring  breezes  and  the  sunshine 
to  plant  the  Dream  in  the  brain  of  Big  Ivan. 

They  were  walking  down  a  dark  side  street  when  they  saw 
a  score  of  men  and  women  creep  from  the  door  of  a  squat, 
unpainted  building.  The  little  group  remained  on  the  side 
walk  for  a  minute  as  if  uncertain  about  the  way  they  should 
go,  then  from  the  corner  of  the  street  came  a  cry  of  "  Police!  " 
and  the  twenty  pedestrians  ran  in  different  directions. 

It  was  no  false  alarm.  Mounted  police  charged  down  the 
dark  thoroughfare  swinging  their  swords  as  they  rode  at  the 
scurrying  men  and  women  who  raced  for  shelter.  Big  Ivan 
dragged  Anna  into  a  doorway,  and  toward  their  hiding  place 
ran  a  young  boy  who,  like  themselves,  had  no  connection  with 
the  group  and  who  merely  desired  to  get  out  of  harm's  way 
till  the  storm  was  over. 

The  boy  was  not  quick  enough  to  escape  the  charge.  A 
trooper  pursued  him,  overtook  him  before  he  reached  the  side 
walk,  and  knocked  him  down  with  a  quick  stroke  given  with 
the  flat  of  his  blade.  His  horse  struck  the  boy  with  one  of 
his  hoofs  as  the  lad  stumbled  on  his  face. 

Big  Ivan  growled  like  an  angry  bear,  and  sprang  from  his 
hiding  place.  The  trooper's  horse  had  carried  him  on  to  the 
sidewalk,  and  Ivan  seized  the  bridle  and  flung  the  animal  on 
its  haunches.  The  policeman  leaned  forward  to  strike  at  the 
giant,  but  Ivan  of  the  Bridge  gripped  the  left  leg  of  the  horse 
man  and  tore  him  from  the  saddle. 

The  horse  galloped  off,  leaving  its  rider  lying  beside  the 
moaning  boy  who  was  unlucky  enough  to  be  in  a  street  where 
a  score  of  students  were  holding  a  meeting. 

Anna  dragged  Ivan  back  into  the  passageway.  More  police 
were  charging  down  the  street,  and  their  position  was  a  dan 
gerous  one. 


THE  CITIZEN  309 

"  Ivan!  "  she  cried,  "  Ivan!  Remember  the  Dream! 
America,  Ivan!  America!  Come  this  way!  Quick!  " 

With  strong  hands  she  dragged  him  down  the  passage.  It 
opened  into  a  narrow  lane,  and,  holding  each  other's  hands, 
they  hurried  toward  the  place  where  they  had  taken  lodgings. 
From  far  off  came  screams  and  hoarse  orders,  curses  and  the 
sound  of  galloping  hoofs.  The  Terror  was  abroad. 

Big  Ivan  spoke  softly  as  they  entered  the  little  room  they 
had  taken.  "  He  had  a  face  like  the  boy  to  whom  you  gave 
the  lucky  pot,"  he  said.  "  Did  you  notice  it  in  the  moonlight 
when  the  trooper  struck  him  down?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.    "  I  saw." 

They  left  Bobruisk  next  morning.  They  rode  away  on  a 
great,  puffing,  snorting  train  that  terrified  Anna.  The  engineer 
turned  a  stopcock  as  they  were  passing  the  engine,  and  Anna 
screamed  while  Ivan  nearly  dropped  the  big  trunk.  The  engi 
neer  grinned,  but  the  giant  looked  up  at  him  and  the  grin 
faded.  Ivan  of  the  Bridge  was  startled  by  the  rush  of  hot 
steam,  but  he  was  afraid  of  no  man. 

The  train  went  roaring  by  little  villages  and  great  pasture 
stretches.  The  real  journey  had  begun.  They  began  to  love 
the  powerful  engine.  It  was  eating  up  the  versts  at  a  tre 
mendous  rate.  They  looked  at  each  other  from  time  to  time 
and  smiled  like  two  children. 

They  came  to  Minsk,  the  biggest  town  they  had  ever  seen. 
They  looked  out  from  the  car  windows  at  the  miles  of  wooden 
buildings,  at  the  big  church  of  St.  Catharine,  and  the  woolen 
mills.  Minsk  would  have  frightened  them  if  they  hadn't  had 
the  Dream.  The  farther  they  went  from  the  little  village  on 
the  Beresina  the  more  courage  the  Dream  gave  to  them. 

On  and  on  went  the  train,  the  wheels  singing  the  song  of  the 
road.  Fellow  travelers  asked  them  where  they  were  going. 
"  To  America,"  Ivan  would  answer. 

"  To  America?  "  they  would  cry.  "  May  the  little  saints 
guide  you.  It  is  a  long  way,  and  you  will  be  lonely." 


3io  AMERICANS  ALL 

"  No,  we  shall  not  be  lonely,"  Ivan  would  say. 

"  Ha!  you  are  going  with  friends?  " 

"  No,  we  have  no  friends,  but  we  have  something  that  keeps 
us  from  being  lonely."  And  when  Ivan  would  make  that  reply 
Anna  would  pat  his  hand  and  the  questioner  would  wonder  if 
it  was  a  charm  or  a  holy  relic  that  the  bright-eyed  couple 
possessed. 

They  ran  through  Vilna,  on  through  flat  stretches  of  Cour- 
land  to  Libau,  where  they  saw  the  sea.  They  sat  and  stared 
at  it  for  a  whole  day,  talking  little  but  watching  it  with  wide, 
wondering  eyes.  And  they  stared  at  the  great  ships  that  came 
rocking  in  from  distant  ports,  their  sides  gray  with  the  salt  from 
the  big  combers  which  they  had  battled  with. 

No  wonder  this  America  of  ours  is  big.  We  draw  the  brave 
ones  from  the  old  lands,  the  brave  ones  whose  dreams  are  like 
the  guiding  sign  that  was  given  to  the  Israelites  of  old — a  pillar 
of  cloud  by  day,  a  pillar  of  fire  by  night. 

The  harbormaster  spoke  to  Ivan  and  Anna  as  they  watched 
the  restless  waters. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  children?  " 

"  To  America,"  answered  Ivan. 

"A  long  way.  Three  ships  bound  for  America  went  down 
last  month." 

"  Our  ship  will  not  sink,"  said  Ivan. 

"  Why?  " 

"  Because  I  know  it  will  not." 

The  harbor  master  looked  at  the  strange  blue  eyes  of  the 
giant,  and  spoke  softly.  "  You  have  the  eyes  of  a  man  who 
sees  things,"  he  said.  "  There  was  a  Norwegian  sailor  in 
the  White  Queen,  who  had  eyes  like  yours,  and  he  could  see 
death." 

"  I  see  life!  "  said  Ivan  boldly.    "  A  free  life " 

"  Hush!  "  said  the  harbor  master.  "  Do  not  speak  so  loud." 
He  walked  swiftly  away,  but  he  dropped  a  ruble  into  Anna's 
hand  as  he  passed  her  by.  "  For  luck,"  he  murmured.  "  May 
the  little  saints  look  after  you  on  the  big  waters." 


THE  CITIZEN  311 

They  boarded  the  ship,  and  the  Dream  gave  them  a  courage 
that  surprised  them.  There  were  others  going  aboard,  and 
Ivan  and  Anna  felt  that  those  others  were  also  persons  who 
possessed  dreams.  She  saw  the  dreams  in  their  eyes.  There 
were  Slavs,  Poles,  Letts,  Jews,  and  Livonians,  all  bound  for 
the  land  where  dreams  come  true.  They  were  a  little  afraid — 
not  two  per  cent  of  them  had  ever  seen  a  ship  before — yet  their 
dreams  gave  them  courage. 

The  emigrant  ship  was  dragged  from  her  pier  by  a  grunting 
tug  and  went  floundering  down  the  Baltic  Sea.  Night  came 
down,  and  the  devils  who,  according  to  the  Esthonian  fisher 
men,  live  in  the  bottom  of  the  Baltic,  got  their  shoulders  under 
the  stern  of  the  ship  and  tried  to  stand  her  on  her  head.  They 
whipped  up  white  combers  that  sprang  on  her  flanks  and  tried 
to  crush  her,  and  the  wind  played  a  devil's  lament  in  her  rig 
ging.  Anna  lay  sick  in  the  stuffy  women's  quarters,  and  Ivan 
could  not  get  near  her.  But  he  sent  her  messages.  He  told 
her  not  to  mind  the  sea  devils,  to  think  of  the  Dream,  the 
Great  Dream  that  would  become  real  in  the  land  to  which 
they  were  bound.  Ivan  of  the  Bridge  grew  to  full  stature  on 
that  first  night  out  from  Libau.  The  battered  old  craft  that 
carried  him  slouched  before  the  waves  that  swept  over  her 
decks,  but  he  was  not  afraid.  Down  among  the  million  and 
one  smells  of  the  steerage  he  induced  a  thin-faced  Livonian 
to  play  upon  a  mouth  organ,  and  Big  Ivan  sang  Paleer's  "  Song 
of  Freedom  "  in  a  voice  that  drowned  the  creaking  of  the  old 
vessel's  timbers,  and  made  the  seasick  ones  forget  their  sick 
ness.  They  sat  up  in  their  berths  and  joined  in  the  chorus, 
their  eyes  shining  brightly  in  the  half  gloom: 

"  Freedom  for  serf  and  for  slave, 
Freedom  for  all  men  who  crave 
Their  right  to  be  free 
And  who  hate  to  bend  knee 
But  to  Him  who  this  right  to  them  gave." 

It  was  well  that  these  emigrants  had  dreams.  They  wanted 
them.  The  sea  devils  chased  the  lumbering  steamer.  They 


3i2  AMERICANS  ALL 

hung  to  her  bows  and  pulled  her  for'ard  deck  under  emerald- 
green  rollers.  They  clung  to  her  stern  and  hoisted  her  nose 
till  Big  Ivan  thought  that  he  could  touch  the  door  of  heaven 
by  standing  on  her  blunt  snout.  Miserable,  cold,  ill,  and  sleep 
less,  the  emigrants  crouched  in  their  quarters,  and  to  them 
Ivan  and  the  thin-faced  Livonian  sang  the  "  Song  of  Freedom." 

The  emigrant  ship  pounded  through  the  Cattegat,  swung 
southward  through  the  Skagerrack  and  the  bleak  North  Sea. 
But  the  storm  pursued  her.  The  big  waves  snarled  and  bit  at 
her,  and  the  captain  and  the  chief  officer  consulted  with  each 
other.  They  decided  to  run  into  the  Thames,  and  the  harried 
steamer  nosed  her  way  in  and  anchored  off  Gravesend. 

An  examination  was  made,  and  the  agents  decided  to  trans 
ship  the  emigrants.  They  were  taken  to  London  and  thence 
by  train  to  Liverpool,  and  Ivan  and  Anna  sat  again  side  by  side, 
holding  hands  and  smiling  at  each  other  as  the  third-class  emi 
grant  train  from  Euston  raced  down  through  the  green  Midland 
counties  to  grimy  Liverpool. 

"  You  are  not  afraid?  "  Ivan  would  say  to  her  each  time  she 
looked  at  him. 

"  It  is  a  long  way,  but  the  Dream  has  given  me  much  cour 
age,"  she  said. 

"  To-day  I  spoke  to  a  Lett  whose  brother  works  in  New 
York  City,"  said  the  giant.  "  Do  you  know  how  much  money 
he  earns  each  day?  " 

"  How  much?  "  she  questioned. 

"  Three  rubles,  and  he  calls  the  policemen  by  their  first 
names." 

"  You  will  earn  five  rubles,  my  Ivan,"  she  murmured. 
"  There  is  no  one  as  strong  as  you." 

Once  again  they  were  herded  into  the  bowels  of  a  big  ship 
that  steamed  away  through  the  fog  banks  of  the  Mersey  out 
into  the  Irish  Sea.  There  were  more  dreamers  now,  nine  hun 
dred  of  them,  and  Anna  and  Ivan  were  more  comfortable. 
And  these  new  emigrants,  English,  Irish,  Scotch,  French,  and 


THE  CITIZEN  313 

German,  knew  much  concerning  America.  Ivan  was  certain 
that  he  would  earn  at  least  three  rubles  a  day.  He  was  very 
strong. 

On  the  deck  he  defeated  all  comers  in  a  tug  of  war,  and 
the  captain  of  the  ship  came  up  to  him  and  felt  his  muscles. 

"  The  country  that  lets  men  like  you  get  away  from  it  is 
run  badly,"  he  said.  "  Why  did  you  leave  it?  " 

The  interpreter  translated  what  the  captain  said,  and 
through  the  interpreter  Ivan  answered. 

"  I  had  a  Dream,"  he  said,  "  a  Dream  of  freedom." 
"  Good,"  cried  the  captain.    "  Why  should  a  man  with  mus 
cles  like  yours  have  his  face  ground  into  the  dust?  " 

The  soul  of  Big  Ivan  grew  during  those  days.  He  felt  him 
self  a  man,  a  man  who  was  born  upright  to  speak  his  thoughts 
without  fear. 

The  ship  rolled  into  Queenstown  one  bright  morning,  and 
Ivan  and  his  nine  hundred  steerage  companions  crowded  the 
for'ard  deck.  A  boy  in  a  rowboat  threw  a  line  to  the  deck, 
and  after  it  had  been  fastened  to  a  stanchion  he  came  up  hand 
over  hand.  The  emigrants  watched  him  curiously.  An  old 
woman  sitting  in  the  boat  pulled  off  her  shoes,  sat  in  a  loop 
of  the  rope,  and  lifted  her  hand  as  a  signal  to  her  son  on  deck. 
"  Hey,  fellers,"  said  the  boy,  "  help  me  pull  me  muvver  up. 
She  wants  to  sell  a  few  dozen  apples,  an'  they  won't  let  her  up 
the  gangway!  " 

Big  Ivan  didn't  understand  the  words,  but  he  guessed  what 
the  boy  wanted.  He  made  one  of  a  half  dozen  who  gripped 
the  rope  and  started  to  pull  the  ancient  apple  woman  to  the 
deck. 

They  had  her  halfway  up  the  side  when  an  undersized  third 
officer  discovered  what  they  were  doing.  He  called  to  a 
steward,  and  the  steward  sprang  to  obey. 

"  Turn  a  hose  on  her!  "  cried  the  officer.  "  Turn  a  hose  on 
the  old  woman!  " 

The  steward  rushed  for  the  hose.    He  ran  with  it  to  the  side 


314  AMERICANS  ALL 

of  the  ship  with  the  intention  of  squirting  on  the  old  woman, 
who  was  swinging  in  midair  and  exhorting  the  six  men  who  were 
dragging  her  to  the  deck. 

"  Pull!  "  she  cried.  "  Sure,  I'll  give  every  one  of  ye  a  rosy 
red  apple  an'  me  blessing  with  it." 

The  steward  aimed  the  muzzle  of  the  hose,  and  Big  Ivan  of 
the  Bridge  let  go  of  the  rope  and  sprang  at  him.  The  fist 
of  the  great  Russian  went  out  like  a  battering  ram;  it  struck 
the  steward  between  the  eyes,  and  he  dropped  upon  the  deck. 
He  lay  like  one  dead,  the  muzzle  of  the  hose  wriggling  from 
his  limp  hands. 

The  third  officer  and  the  interpreter  rushed  at  Big  Ivan,  who 
stood  erect,  his  hands  clenched. 

"  Ask  the  big  swine  why  he  did  it,"  roared  the  officer. 

"Because  he  is  a  coward!  "  cried  Ivan.  "They  wouldn't 
do  that  in  America!  " 

"  What  does  the  big  brute  know  about  America?  "  cried  the 
officer. 

"  Tell  him  I  have  dreamed  of  it,"  shouted  Ivan.  "  Tell  him 
it  is  in  my  Dream.  Tell  him  I  will  kill  him  if  he  turns  the 
water  on  this  old  woman." 

The  apple  seller  was  on  deck  then,  and  with  the  wisdom  of 
the  Celt  she  understood.  She  put  her  lean  hand  upon  the 
great  head  of  the  Russian  and  blessed  him  in  Gaelic.  Ivan 
bowed  before  her,  then  as  she  offered  him  a  rosy  apple  he  led 
her  toward  Anna,  a  great  Viking  leading  a  withered  old 
woman  who  walked  with  the  grace  of  a  duchess. 

"  Please  don't  touch  him,"  she  cried,  turning  to  the  officer. 
"  We  have  been  waiting  for  your  ship  for  six  hours,  and  we 
have  only  five  dozen  apples  to  sell.  It's  a  great  man  he  is. 
Sure  he's  as  big  as  Finn  MacCool." 

Some  one  pulled  the  steward  behind  a  ventilator  and  re 
vived  him  by  squirting  him  with  water  from  the  hose  which  he 
had  tried  to  turn  upon  the  old  woman.  The  third  officer 
slipped  quietly  away. 


THE  CITIZEN  315 

The  Atlantic  was  kind  to  the  ship  that  carried  Ivan  and 
Anna.  Through  sunny  days  they  sat  up  on  deck  and  watched 
the  horizon.  They  wanted  to  be  among  those  who  would  get 
the  first  glimpse  of  the  wonderland. 

They  saw  it  on  a  morning  with  sunshine  and  soft  wind. 
Standing  together  in  the  bow,  they  looked  at  the  smear  upon 
the  horizon,  and  their  eyes  filled  with  tears.  They  forgot  the 
long  road  to  Bobruisk,  the  rocking  journey  to  Libau,  the  mad 
buckjumping  boat  in  whose  timbers  the  sea  devils  of  the  Baltic 
had  bored  holes.  Everything  unpleasant  was  forgotten,  be 
cause  the  Dream  filled  them  with  a  great  happiness. 

The  inspectors  at  Ellis  Island  were  interested  in  Ivan, 
They  walked  around  him  and  prodded  his  muscles,  and  he 
smiled  down  upon  them  good-naturedly. 

"A  fine  animal,"  said  one.  "  Gee,  he's  a  new  white  hope  I 
Ask  him  can  he  fight?  " 

An  interpreter  put  the  question,  and  Ivan  nodded.  "  I  have 
fought,"  he  said. 

"  Gee!  "  cried  the  inspector.  "  Ask  him  was  it  for  purses  or 
what?  " 

"  For  freedom,"  answered  Ivan.  "  For  freedom  to  stretch 
my  legs  and  straighten  my  neck!  " 

Ivan  and  Anna  left  the  Government  ferryboat  at  the  Bat 
tery.  They  started  to  walk  uptown,  making  for  the  East  Side, 
Ivan  carrying  the  big  trunk  that  no  other  man  could  lift. 

It  was  a  wonderful  morning.  The  city  was  bathed  in  warm 
sunshine,  and  the  well-dressed  men  and  women  who  crowded 
the  sidewalks  made  the  two  immigrants  think  that  it  was  a 
festival  day.  Ivan  and  Anna  stared  at  each  other  in  amaze 
ment.  They  had  never  seen  such  dresses  as  those  worn  by 
the  smiling  women  who  passed  them  by;  they  had  never  seen: 
such  well-groomed  men. 

"  It  is  a  feast  day  for  certain,"  said  Anna. 

"  They  are  dressed  like  princes  and  princesses,"  murmured 
Ivan.  "  There  are  no  poor  here,  Anna.  None." 


3i6  AMERICANS  ALL 

Like  two  simple  children,  they  walked  along  the  streets  of 
the  City  of  Wonder.  What  a  contrast  it  was  to  the  gray, 
stupid  towns  where  the  Terror  waited  to  spring  upon  the 
cowed  people.  In  Bobruisk,  Minsk,  Vilna,  and  Libau  the  peo 
ple  were  sullen  and  afraid.  They  walked  in  dread,  but  in  the 
City  of  Wonder  beside  the  glorious  Hudson  every  person  seemed 
happy  and  contented. 

They  lost  their  way,  but  they  walked  on,  looking  at  the 
wonderful  shop  windows,  the  roaring  elevated  trains,  and  the 
huge  skyscrapers.  Hours  afterward  they  found  themselves 
in  Fifth  Avenue  near  Thirty-third  Street,  and  there  the  miracle 
happened  to  the  two  Russian  immigrants.  It  was  a  big  miracle 
inasmuch  as  it  proved  the  Dream  a  truth,  a  great  truth. 

Ivan  and  Anna  attempted  to  cross  the  avenue,  but  they 
became  confused  in  the  snarl  of  traffic.  They  dodged  backward 
and  forward  as  the  stream  of  automobiles  swept  by  them.  Anna 
screamed,  and,  in  response  to  her  scream,  a  traffic  policeman, 
resplendent  in  a  new  uniform,  rushed  to  her  side.  He  took  the 
arm  of  Anna  and  flung  up  a  commanding  hand.  The  charging 
autos  halted.  For  five  blocks  north  and  south  they  jammed  on 
the  brakes  when  the  unexpected  interruption  occurred,  and 
Big  Ivan  gasped. 

"  Don't  be  flurried,  little  woman,"  said  the  cop.  "  Sure  I 
can  tame  'em  by  liftin'  me  hand." 

Anna  didn't  understand  what  he  said,  but  she  knew  it  was 
something  nice  by  the  manner  in  which  his  Irish  eyes  smiled 
down  upon  her.  And  in  front  of  the  waiting  automobiles  he 
led  her  with  the  same  care  that  he  would  give  to  a  duchess, 
while  Ivan,  carrying  the  big  trunk,  followed  them,  wondering 
much.  Ivan's  mind  went  back  to  Bobruisk  on  the  night  the 
Terror  was  abroad. 

The  policeman  led  Anna  to  the  sidewalk,  patted  Ivan  good- 
naturedly  upon  the  shoulder,  and  then  with  a  sharp  whistle 
unloosed  the  waiting  stream  of  cars  that  had  been  held  up  so 
that  two  Russian  immigrants  could  cross  the  avenue. 


THE  CITIZEN  31? 

Big  Ivan  of  the  Bridge  took  the  trunk  from  his  head  and 
put  it  on  the  ground.  He  reached  out  his  arms  and  folded 
Anna  in  a  great  embrace.  His  eyes  were  wet. 

"The  Dream  is  true!  "  he  cried.  "Did  you  see,  Anna? 
We  are  as  good  as  they!  This  is  the  land  where  a  muzhik  is 
as  good  as  a  prince  of  the  blood  1  " 

The  President  was  nearing  the  close  of  his  address.  Anna 
shook  Ivan,  and  Ivan  came  out  of  the  trance  which  the  Presi 
dent's  words  had  brought  upon  him.  He  sat  up  and  listened 
intently: 

We  grow  great  by  dreams.  All  big  men  are  dreamers.  They 
see  things  in  the  soft  haze  of  a  spring  day  or  in  the  red  fire 
of  a  long  winter's  evening.  Some  of  us  let  those  great  dreams 
die,  but  others  nourish  and  protect  them,  nurse  them  through 
bad  days  till  they  bring  them  to  the  sunshine  and  light  which 
come  always  to  those  who  sincerely  hope  that  their  dreams 
will  come  true. 

The  President  finished.  For  a  moment  he  stood  looking 
down  at  the  faces  turned  up  to  him,  and  Big  Ivan  of  the  Bridge 
thought  that  the  President  smiled  at  him.  Ivan  seized  Anna's 
hand  and  held  it  tight. 

"He  knew  of  my  Dream!  "  he  cried.  "He  knew  of  it. 
Did  you  hear  what  he  said  about  the  dreams  of  a  spring  day?  " 

"  Of  course  he  knew,"  said  Anna.  "  He  is  the  wisest  man 
in  America,  where  there  are  many  wise  men.  Ivan,  you  are  a 
citizen  now." 

"  And  you  are  a  citizen,  Anna." 

The  band  started  to  play  "  My  Country,  'tis  of  Thee,"  and 
Ivan  and  Anna  got  to  their  feet.  Standing  side  by  side,  hold 
ing  hands,  they  joined  in  with  the  others  who  had  found  after 
long  days  of  journeying  the  blessed  land  where  dreams  come 
true. 


JAMES  FRANCIS  DWYER 

Mr.  Dwyer  is  an  American  by  adoption,  an  Australian  by 
birth.  He  was  born  in  Camden,  New  South  Wales,  April  22, 
1874;  and  received  his  education  in  the  public  schools  there. 
He  entered  newspaper  work,  and  in  the  capacity  of  a  corre 
spondent  for  Australian  papers  traveled  extensively  in  Aus 
tralia  and  in  the  South  Seas,  from  1898  to  1906.  In  1906  he 
made  a  tour  through  South  Africa,  and  at  the  conclusion 
of  this  went  to  England.  He  came  to  America  in  1907,  and 
since  that  time  has  made  his  home  in  New  York  City.  He  has 
been  a  frequent  contributor  to  Collier's,  Harper's  Weekly,  The 
American  Magazine,  The  Ladies'  Home  Journal,  and  other 
periodicals.  He  has  published  five  books,  nearly  all  dealing 
with  the  strange  life  of  the  far  East.  His  first  book,  The 
White  Waterfall,  published  in  1912,  has  its  scene  in  the  South 
Sea  Islands.  A  California  scientist,  interested  in  ancient  Poly 
nesian  skulls,  goes  to  the  South  Seas  to  investigate  his  favorite 
subject,  accompanied  by  his  two  daughters.  The  amazing  ad 
ventures  they  meet  there  make  a  very  interesting  story.  The 
Spotted  Panther  is  a  story  of  adventure  in  Borneo.  Three 
white  men  go  there  in  search  of  a  wonderful  sword  of  great 
antiquity  which  is  in  the  possession  of  a  tribe  of  Dyaks, 
the  head-hunters  of  Borneo.  There  are  some  vivid  descriptions 
in  the  story  and  plenty  of  thrills.  The  Breath  of  the  Jungle 
is  a  collection  of  short  stories,  the  scenes  laid  in  the  Malay 
Peninsula  and  nearby  islands.  They  describe  the  strange  life 
of  these  regions,  and  show  how  it  reacts  in  various  ways  upon 
white  men  who  live  there.  The  Green  Half  Moon  is  a  story 
of  mystery  and  diplomatic  intrigue,  the  scene  partly  in  the 
Orient,  partly  in  London. 

318 


JAMES  FRANCIS  DWYER  319 

In  his  later  work  Mr.  Dwyer  has  taken  up  American 
themes.  The  Bust  of  Lincoln,  really  a  short  story,  deals 
with  a  young  man  whose  proudest  possession  is  a  bust  of 
Lincoln  that  had  belonged  to  his  grandfather;  the  story  shows 
how  it  influences  his  life.  The  story  The  Citizen  had  an 
interesting  origin.  On  May  10,  1915,  just  after  the  sinking  of 
the  Lusitania,  President  Wilson  went  to  Philadelphia  to  address 
a  meeting  of  an  unusual  kind.  Four  thousand  foreign-born 
men,  who  had  just  become  naturalized  citizens  of  our  country, 
were  to  be  welcomed  to  citizenship  by  the  Mayor  of  the  city,  a 
member  of  the  Cabinet,  and  the  President  of  the  United  States. 
The  meeting  was  held  in  Convention  Hall;  more  than  fifteen 
thousand  people  were  present,  and  the  event,  occurring  as  it 
did  at  a  time  when  every  one  realized  that  the  loyalty  of  our 
people  was  likely  to  be  soon  put  to  the  test,  was  one  of  historic 
importance.  Moved  by  the  significance  of  this  event,  Mr. 
Dwyer  translated  it  into  literature.  His  story,  "  The  Citizen," 
was  published  in  Collier's  in  November,  1915. 


LIST  OF  AMERICAN   SHORT   STORIES 
CLASSIFIED  BY  LOCALITY 

I.   THE  EAST 

NEW  ENGLAND 

A  New  England  Nun;  A  Humble  Romance,  Mary  Wilkins-Freeman. 
Meadow-Grass;  The  Country  Road,  Alice  Brown. 
A  White  Heron;  The  Queen's  Twin,  Sarah  Orne  Jewett. 
Pratt  Portraits;  Later  Pratt  Portraits,  Anna  Fuller. 
The  Village  Watch  Tower,  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin. 
The  Old  Home  House,  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 
Hillsboro  People,  Dorothy  Canfield. 

Out  of  Gloucester;  The  Crested  Seas,  James  B.  Connolly. 
Under  the  Crust,  Thomas  Nelson  Page. 
Dumb  Foxglove,  Annie  T.  Slosson. 

Huckleberries   Gathered   From   New   England    Hills,   Rose    Terry 
Cooke. 

NEW  YORK  CITY 
The  Four  Million;   The  Voice  of  the  City;  The  Trimmed  Lamp, 

O.  Henry. 

Van  Bibber  and  Others,  Richard  Harding  Davis. 
Doctor  Rast,  James  Oppenheim. 
Toomey  and  Others,  Robert  Shackleton. 
Vignettes  of  Manhattan,  Brander  Matthews. 
The  Imported  Bridegroom,  Abraham  Cahan. 
Little  Citizens;  Little  Aliens,  Myra  Kelly. 
The  Soul  of  the  Street,  Norman  Duncan. 
Wall  Street  Stories,  Edwin  Le  Fevre. 
The  Optimist,  Susan  Faber. 
Every  Soul  Hath  Its  Song,  Fannie  Hurst 

NEW  JERSEY 

Hulgate  of  Mogador,  Sewell  Ford. 
Edgewater  People,  Mary  Wilkins-Freeman. 

321 


322          LIST  OF  AMERICAN  SHORT  STORIES 

PENNSYLVANIA 

Old  Chester  Tales;  Doctor  Lavender's  People,  Margaret  Deland. 
Betrothal  of  Elypholate,  Helen  R.  Martin. 
The  Passing  of  Thomas,  Thomas  A.  Janvier. 
The  Standard  Bearers,  Katherine  Mayo. 
Six  Stars,  Nelson  Lloyd. 

II.   THE  SOUTH 

ALABAMA 

Alabama  Sketches,  Samuel  Minturn  Peck. 
Polished  Ebony,  Octavius  R.  Cohen. 

ARKANSAS 
Otto  the  Knight;  Knitters  in  the  Sun,  Octave  Thanet. 

FLORIDA 
Rodman  the  Keeper,  Constance  F.  Woolson. 

GEORGIA 

Georgia  Scenes,  A.  B.  Longstreet. 

Free  Joe;  Tales  of  the  Home-Folks,  Joel  Chandler  Harris. 
Stories  of  the  Cherokee  Hills,  Maurice  Thompson. 
Northern  Georgia  Sketches,  Will  N.  Harben. 
His  Defence,  Harry  Stilwell  Edwards. 

Mr.   Absalom  Billingslea;    Mr.   Billy   Downes,    Richard   Malcolm 
Johnston. 

KENTUCKY 

Flute  and  Violin;  A  Kentucky  Cardinal,  James  Lane  Allen. 
In  Happy  Valley,  John  Fox,  Jr. 

Back  Home;  Judge  Priest  and  his  People,  Irvin  S.  Cobb. 
Land  of  Long  Ago;  Aunt  Jane  of  Kentucky,  Eliza  Calvert  Hall. 

LOUISIANA 
Holly  and  Pizen;  Aunt  Amity's  Silver  Wedding,  Ruth  McEnery 

Stuart. 

Balcony  Stories;  Tales  of  Time  and  Place,  Grace  King. 
Old  Creole  Days;  Strange  True  Stories  of  Louisiana,  George  W. 

Cable. 
Bayou  Folks,  Kate  Chopin. 


LIST  OF  AMERICAN  SHORT  STORIES         323 

TENNESSEE 

In  the  Tennessee  Mountains;  Prophet  of  the  Great  Smoky  Moun 
tains,  Charles  Egbert  Craddock.     (Mary  N.  Murfree.) 

VIRGINIA 

In  Ole  Virginia,  Thomas  Nelson  Page. 
Virginia  of  Virginia,  Amelie  Rives. 
Colonel  Carter  of  Cartersville,  F.  Hopkinson  Smith. 

NORTH  CAROLINA 
North  Carolina  Sketches,  Mary  N.  Carter. 

III.    THE  MIDDLE  WEST 

INDIANA 
Dialect  Sketches,  James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

ILLINOIS 
The  Home  Builders,  K.  E.  Harriman. 

IOWA 

Stories  of  a  Western  Town;  The  Missionary  Sheriff,  Octave  Thanet. 
In  a  Little  Town,  Rupert  Hughes. 

KANSAS 
In  Our  Town;  Stratagems  and  Spoils,  William  Allen  White. 

MISSOURI 

The  Man  at  the  Wheel,  John  Hanton  Carter. 
Stories  of  a  Country  Doctor,  Willis  King. 

MICHIGAN 

'Blazed  Trail  Stories,  Stewart  Edward  White. 
lMackinac  and  Lake  Stories,  Mary  Hartwell  Catherwood. 

OHIO 
Folks  Back  Home,  Eugene  Wood. 

WISCONSIN 

Main-Travelled  Roads,  Hamlin  Garland. 
Friendship  Village;  Friendship  Village  Love  Stories,  Zona  Gale. 


324         LIST  OF  AMERICAN  SHORT  STORIES 

IV.    THE  FAR  WEST 

ARIZONA 

Lost  Borders,  Mary  Austin. 
Arizona  Nights,  Stewart  Edward  White. 

ALASKA 
Love  of  Life;  Son  of  the  Wolf,  Jack  London. 

CALIFORNIA 

The  Cat  and  the  Cherub,  Chester  B.  Fernald. 
The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp;  Tales  of  the  Argonauts,  Bret  Harte. 
The  Splendid  Idle  Forties,  Gertrude  Atherton. 

NEW  MEXICO 

The  King  of  the  Broncos,  Charles  F.  Lummis. 
Santa  Fe's  Partner,  Thomas  A.  Janvier. 

WYOMING 
Red  Men  and  White;  The  Virginian;  Members  of  the  Family,  Owen 

Wister. 
Teepee  Tales,  Grace  Coolidge. 

PHILIPPINE  ISLANDS 
Caybigan,  James  N.  Hopper. 


NOTES   AND   QUESTIONS    FOR   STUDY 

THE  RIGHT  PROMETHEAN  FIRE 

In  Greek  mythology,  the  work  of  creating  living  things  was  en 
trusted  to  two  of  the  gods,  Epimetheus  and  Prometheus.  Epi- 
metheus  gave  to  the  different  animals  various  powers,  to  the  lion 
strength,  to  the  bird  swiftness,  to  the  fox  sagacity,  and  so  on  until 
all  the  good  gifts  had  been  bestowed,  and  there  was  nothing  left  for 
man.  Then  Prometheus  ascended  to  heaven  and  brought  down  fire, 
as  his  gift  to  man.  With  this,  man  could  protect  himself,  could 
forge  iron  to  make  weapons,  and  so  in  time  develop  the  arts  of 
civilization.  In  this  story  the  "  Promethean  Fire "  of  love  is  the 
means  of  giving  little  Emmy  Lou  her  first  lesson  in  reading. 

1.  A  test  that  may  be  applied  to  any  story  is,  Does  it  read  as  if  it 

were  true?  Would  the  persons  in  the  story  do  the  things  they 
are  represented  as  doing?  Test  the  acts  of  Billy  Traver  in 
this  way,  and  see  if  they  are  probable. 

2.  In  writing  stories  about  children,  a  writer  must  have  the  power 

to  present  life  as  a  child  sees  it.  Point  out  places  in  this  story 
where  school  life  is  described  as  it  appears  to  a  new  pupil. 

3.  One  thing  we  ought  to  gain  from  our  reading  is  a  larger  vocabu 

lary.  In  this  story  there  are  a  number  of  words  worth  adding 
to  our  stock.  Define  these  exactly:  inquisitorial;  lachrymose; 
laconic;  surreptitious;  contumely. 

Get  the  habit  of  looking  up  new  words  and  writing  down 
their  meanings. 

4.  Can  you  write  a  story  about  a  school  experience? 

5.  Other  books  containing  stories  of  school  life  are : 

Little  Aliens,  Myra  Kelly;  May  Iverson  Tackles  Life,  Eliza 
beth  Jordan;  Ten  to  Seventeen,  Josephine  Daskam  Bacon; 
Closed  Doors,  Margaret  P.  Montague.  Read  a  story  from  one 
of  these  books,  and  compare  it  with  this  story. 

THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE 

Central  Park,  New  York,  covers  an  era  of  more  than  eight  hun 
dred  acres,  with  a  zoo  and  several  small  lakes.  On  one  of  the  lakes 
there  are  large  boats  with  a  huge  wooden  swan  on  each  side. 
Richard  Harding  Davis  located  one  of  his  stories  here :  See  "  Van 

325 


326         NOTES  AND  QUESTIONS  FOR  STUDY 

Bibber  and  the  Swan  Boats,"  in  the  volume  called  Van  Bibber  and 
Others. 

1.  How  is  this  story  like  the  preceding  one?      What  difference  in 

the  characters?    What  difference  in  their  homes? 

2.  How  does  Myra  Kelly  make  you  feel  sympathy  for  the  little 

folks?  In  what  ways  have  their  lives  been  less  fortunate  than 
the  lives  of  children  in  your  town? 

3.  What  is  peculiar  about  the  talk  of  these  children?    Do  they  all 

speak  the  same  dialect?  Many  of  the  children  of  the  East  Side 
never  hear  English  spoken  at  home. 

4.  What  touches  of  humor  are  there  in  this  story? 

5.  What  new  words  do  you  find?    Define  garrulous,  pedagogically, 

cicerone. 

6.  Where  did  Miss  Kelly  get  her  materials  for  this  story?    See  the 

life  on  page  37. 

7.  What  other  stories  by  this  author  have  you  read?    This  is  from 

Little  Citizens;  other  books  telling  about  the  same  characters 
are  Little  Aliens,  and  Wards  of  Liberty. 

8.  Other  books  of  short  stories  dealing  with  children  are :  Whilom- 

ville  Stories,  by  Stephen  Crane;  The  Golden  Age,  by  Kenneth 
Grahame;  The  Madness  of  Philip,  by  Josephine  Daskam 
Bacon ;  The  King  of  Boyville,  by  William  Allen  White ;  New 
Chronicles  of  Rebecca,  by  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin.  Read  one  of 
these,  and  compare  it  with  Myra  Kelly's  story. 

THE  TENOR 

1.  Point  out  the  humorous  touches  in  this  story. 

2.  Is  the  story  probable?     To   answer  this,  consider  two   points: 

would  Louise  have  undertaken  such  a  thing  as  answering  the 
advertisement?  and  would  she  have  had  the  spirit  to  act  as  she 
did  at  the  close?  Note  the  touches  of  description  and  char 
acterization  of  Louise,  and  show  how  they  prepare  for  the 
events  that  follow. 

3.  One  of  the  most  effective  devices  in  art  is  the  use  of  contrast; 

that  is,  bringing  together  two  things  or  persons  or  ideas  that 
are  very  different,  perhaps  the  exact  opposite  of  each  other. 
Show  that  the  main  effect  of  this  story  depends  on  the  use  of 
contrast. 

4.  Read  the  paragraph  on  page  43  beginning,  "  It  happened  to  be  a 

French  tenor."  Give  in  your  own  words  the  thought  of  this 
paragraph.  Is  it  true?  Can  you  give  examples  of  it? 


NOTES  AND  QUESTIONS  FOR  STUDY         327 

5.  Compare  the  length  of  this  story  with  that  of  others  in  the  book. 

Which  authors  get  their  effects  in  a  small  compass?  Could 
any  parts  of  this  story  be  omitted? 

6.  Other  stories  by  H.  C.  Bunner  that  you  will  enjoy  are  "The 

Love  Letters  of  Smith"  and  "A  Sisterly  Scheme"  in  Short 
Sixes. 

THE  PASSING  OF  PRISCILLA  WINTHROP 

1.  Does  the  title  fit  the  story  well?     Why? 

2.  Notice  the  familiar,  almost  conversational  style.     Is  it  suited  to 

the  story?     Why? 

3.  Show  how  the  opening  paragraph  introduces  the  main  idea  of  the 

story. 

4.  To  make  a  story  there  must  be  a  conflict  of  some  sort.    What  is 

the  conflict  here? 

5.  How    does   the    account   of   Julia    Neal's    career   as    a   teacher 

(page  64)  prepare  for  the  ending  of  the  story? 

6.  Do  you  have  a  clear  picture  in  your  mind  of  Mrs.  Winthrop? 

Of  Mrs.  Worthington?  Why  did  not  the  author  tell  about 
their  personal  appearance? 

7.  Point  out  humorous  touches  in  the  next  to  the  last  paragraph. 

8.  Is  this  story  true  to  life?     Who  is  the  Priscilla  Winthrop  of 

your  town? 

9.  What  impression  do  you  get  of  the  man  behind  this  story?    Do 

you  think  he  knew  the  people  of  his  town  well?  Did  he  like 
them  even  while  he  laughed  at  them?1  What  else  can  you  say 
about  him? 

10.  Other  books  of  short  stories  dealing  with  life  in  a  small  town 

are:  Pratt  Portraits,  by  Anna  Fuller;  Old  Chester  Tales,  by 
Margaret  Deland;  Stories  of  a  Western  Town,  by  Octave 
Thanet;  In  a  Little  Toum,  by  Rupert  Hughes;  Folks  Back 
Home,  by  Eugene  Wood;  Friendship  Village,  by  Zona  Gale; 
Bodbank,  by  Richard  W.  Child.  Read  one  of  these  books,  or  a 
story  from  one,  and  compare  it  with  this  story. 

11.  In  what  ways  does  life  in  a  small  town  differ  from  life  in  a 

large  city? 

THE  GIFT  OF  THE  MAGI 

This  story,  taken  from  the  volume  called  The  Four  Million,  is  a 
good  example  of  O.  Henry's  method  as  a  short-story  writer.  It 
is  notable  for  its  brevity.  The  average  length  of  the  modern  short 


328         NOTES  AND  QUESTIONS  FOR  STUDY 

story  is  about  five  thousand  words ;  O.  Henry  uses  a  little  over  one 
thousand  words.  This  conciseness  is  gained  in  several  ways.  In 
his  descriptions,  he  has  the  art  of  selecting  significant  detail.  When 
Delia  looks  out  of  the  window,  instead  of  describing  fully  the  view 
that  met  her  eyes,  he  says :  "  She  looked  out  dully  at  a  grey  cat 
walking  a  grey  fence  in  a  grey  backyard."  A  paragraph  could  do 
no  more.  Again,  the  beginning  of  the  story  is  quick,  abrupt.  There 
is  no  introduction.  The  style  is  often  elliptical;  in  the  first  para 
graph  half  the  sentences  are  not  sentences  at  all.  But  the  main 
reason  for  the  shortness  of  the  story  lies  in  the  fact  that  the  author 
has  included  only  such  incidents  and  details  as  are  necessary  to  the 
unfolding  of  the  plot.  There  is  no  superfluous  matter. 

Another  characteristic  of  O.  Henry  is  found  in  the  unexpected 
turns  of  his  plots.  There  is  almost  always  a  surprise  in  his  stories, 
usually  at  the  end.  And  yet  this  has  been  so  artfully  prepared  for 
that  we  accept  it  as  probable.  Our  pleasure  in  reading  his  stories  is 
further  heightened  by  the  constant  flashes  of  humor  that  light  up 
his  pages.  And  beyond  this,  he  has  the  power  to  touch  deeper 
emotions.  When  Delia  heard  Jim's  step  on  the  stairs,  "  she  turned 
white  just  for  a  moment.  She  had  a  habit  of  saying  little  silent 
prayers  about  the  simplest  things,  and  now  she  whispered,  '  Please 
God,  make  him  think  I  am  still  pretty.' "  One  reads  that  with  a 
little  catch  in  the  throat. 

In  his  plots,  O.  Henry  is  romantic;  in  his  settings  he  is  a  realist. 
Delia  and  Jim  are  romantic  lovers,  they  are  not  prudent  nor  calcu 
lating,  but  act  upon  impulse.  In  his  descriptions,  however,  he  is  a 
realist.  The  eight-dollar-a-week  flat,  the  frying  pan  on  the  back  of 
the  stove,  the  description  of  Delia  "  flopping  down  on  the  couch  for 
a  cry,"  and  afterwards  "  attending  to  her  cheeks  with  the  powder- 
rag," — all  these  are  in  the  manner  of  realism. 

And  finally,  the  tone  of  his  stories  is  brave  and  cheerful.  He 
finds  the  world  a  most  interesting  place,  and  its  people,  even  its 
commonplace  people,  its  rogues,  its  adventurers,  are  drawn  with  a 
broad  sympathy  that  makes  us  more  tolerant  of  the  people  we  meet 
outside  the  books. 

1.  Compare   the   beginning    of   this   story   with    the   beginning   of 

"  Bitter-Sweet."    What  difference  do  you  note? 

2.  Select  a  description  of  a  person  that  shows  the  author's  power 

of  concise  portraiture. 

3.  What  is  the  turn  of  surprise  in  this  story?    What  other  stories 

in  this  book  have  a  similar  twist  at  the  end? 

4.  What  is  the  central  thought  of  this  story? 


NOTES  AND  QUESTIONS  FOR  STUDY         329 

5.  Other  stories  of  O.  Henry's  that  ought  not  to  be  missed  are 
"An  Unfinished  Story"  and  "The  Furnished  Room"  in  The 
Four  Million;  "A  Blackjack  Bargainer"  in  Whirligigs;  "Best 
Seller  "  and  "  The  Rose  of  Dixie  "  in  Options;  "  A  Municipal 
Report"  in  Strictly  Business;  "A  Retrieved  Reformation"  in- 
Roads  of  Destiny;  and  "  Hearts  and  Crosses  "  in  Hearts  of  the 
West. 

THE  GOLD  BRICK 

This  story,  first  published  in  the  American  Magazine,  was  re 
printed  in  a  volume  called  The  Gold  Brick,  published  in  1910.  The 
quotation  "  chip  at  crusts  like  Hindus  "  is  from  Robert  Browning's 
poem  "  Youth  and  Art."  The  reference  to  "  Old  Walt "  at  the  end 
of  the  story  is  to  Walt  Whitman,  one  of  the  great  poets  of 
democracy. 

1.  To  make  a  story  interesting,  there  must  be  a  conflict.     In  this 

the  conflict  is  double:  the  outer  conflict,  between  the  two 
political  factions,  and  the  inner  conflict,  in  the  soul  of  the 
artist.  Note  how  skilfully  this  inner  struggle  is  introduced: 
at  the  moment  when  Kittrell  is  first  rejoicing  over  his  new 
position,  he  feels  a  pang  at  leaving  the  Post,  and  what  it 
stood  for.  This  feeling  is  deepened  by  his  wife's  tacit  dis 
approval;  it  grows  stronger  as  the  campaign  progresses,  until 
the  climax  is  reached  in  the  scene  where  he  resigns  his 
position. 

2.  If  you  knew  nothing  about  the  author,  what  could  you  infer 

from  this  story  about  his  political  ideals?  Did  he  believe  in 
democracy?  Did  he  have  faith  in  the  good  sense  of  the  com 
mon  people?  Did  he  think  it  was  worth  while  to  make  sacri 
fices  for  them?  What  is  your  evidence  for  this? 

3.  How  far  is  this  story  true  to  life,  as  you  know  it?     Do  any 

newspapers  in  your  city  correspond  to  the  Post?  To  the 
Telegraph?  Can  you  recall  a  campaign  in  which  the  contest 
was  between  two  such  groups  as  are  described  here? 

4.  Does  Whitlock  have  the  art  of  making  his  characters  real?     Is 

this  true  of  the  minor  characters?  The  girl  in  the  flower  shop, 
for  instance,  who  appears  but  for  a  moment, — is  she  individual' 
ized?  How? 

5.  Is  there  a  lesson  in  this  story?     State  it  in  your  own  words. 

6.  What  experiences  in  Whitlock's  life  gave  him  the  background 

for  this  story? 


330         NOTES  AND  QUESTIONS  FOR  STUDY 

?.   What  new  words  did  you  gain  from  this?    Define  meritricious ; 

prognathic ;   banal ;   vulpine ;   camaraderie  ;  vilification ;  ennui ; 

quixotic;  naive;  pharisaism.    What  can  you  say  of  Whitlock's 

vocabulary? 
8.   Other  good  stories  dealing  with  politics  are  found  in  Stratagems 

and  Spoils,   by   William   Allen   White. 

HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

1.  Note  the  quick  beginning  of  the  story;  no  introduction,  action 

from  the  start.    Why  is  this  suitable  to  this  story? 

2.  Why  is  slang  used  so   frequently? 

3.  Point  out  examples  of  humor  in  the  story. 

4.  In  your  writing,  do  you  ever  have  trouble  in  finding  just  the  right 

word?  Note  on  page  123  how  Edna  Ferber  tries  one  expression 
after  another,  and  how  on  page  122  she  finally  coins  a  word — 
"unadjectivable."  What  does  the  word  mean? 

5.  Do  you  have  a  clear  picture   of  Emma  McChesney?     Of   Ed 

Meyers?  Note  that  the  description  of  Meyers  in  the  office  is 
not  given  all  at  once,  but  a  touch  here  and  then.  Point  out 
all  these  bits  of  description  of  this  person,  and  note  how  com 
plete  the  portrait  is. 

6.  What  have  you  learned  in  this  story  about  the  life  of  a  travel 
ing  salesman? 

7.  What  qualities  must  a  good  salesman  possess? 

8.  Was  Emma  McChesney  a  lady?    Was  Ed  Meyers  a  gentleman? 

Why  do  you  think  so? 

9.  This  story  is  taken  from  the  book  called  Roast  B-eef,  Medium. 

Other  good  books  of  short  stories  by  this  author  are  Per 
sonality  Plus,  and  Cheerful— by  Request. 

BITTER-SWEET 

1.  Note  the  introduction,  a  characteristic  of  all  of  Fannie  Hurst's 

stories.  What  purpose  does  it  serve  here?  What  trait  of 
Gertie's  is  brought  out?  Is  this  important  to  the  story? 

2.  From  the  paragraph  on  page  139  beginning  "  It  was  into  the 

trickle  of  the  last "  select  examples  that  show  the  author's 

skill  in  the  use  of  words.  What  other  instances  of  this  do  you 
note  in  the  story? 

3.  Read  the  sketch  of  the  author.    What  episode  in  her  life  gave 

her  material  for  parts  of  this  story? 


NOTES  AND  QUESTIONS  FOR  STUDY         331 

4.  Notice  how  skillfully  the  conversation  is  handled.    The  opening 

situation  developes  itself  entirely  through  dialogue,  yet  in  a  per 
fectly  natural  way.  It  is  almost  like  a  play  rather  than  a 
story.  If  it  were  dramatized,  how  many  scenes  would  it  make? 

5.  What  does  the  title  mean?    Does  the  author  give  us  the  key  to 

its  meaning? 

6.  What  do  you  think  of  Gertie  as  you  read  the  first  part  of  the 

conversation  in  the  restaurant?  Does  your  opinion  of  her 
change  at  the  end  of  the  story?  Has  her  character  changed? 

7.  Is  the  ending  of  the  story  artistic?     Why  mention  the  time- 

clock?    What  had  Gertie  said  about  it? 

8.  State  in  three  or  four  words  the  central  idea  of  the  story.     Is 

it  true  to  life? 

9.  What  is  the  meaning  of  these  words :  atavism ;  penumbra ;  sema 

phore;  astigmatic;  insouciance;  mise-en-scene ;  kinetic? 

10.  Other  books  of  stories  dealing  with  life  in  New  York  City  are 

The  Four  Million,  and  The  Voice  of  the  City,  by  O.  Henry; 
Van  Bibber  and  Others,  by  Richard  Harding  Davis;  Every 
Soul  Hath  Its  Song,  by  Fannie  Hurst ;  Doctor  Rast,  by  James 
Oppenheim. 

THE  RIVERMAN 

1.  In  how  many  scenes  is  this  story  told?    What  is  the  connection 

between   them  ? 

2.  Is  there  anything  in  the  first  description  of  Dicky  Darrell  that 

gives  you  a  slight  prejudice  against  him? 

3.  Why  was  the  sympathy  of  the  crowd  with  Jimmy  Powers  in  the 

birling  match? 

4.  Comment  on  Jimmy's  remark  at  the  end  of  the  story.     Did  he 

mean  it,  or  is  he  just  trying  to  turn  away  the  praise? 

5.  What  are  the  characteristics  of  a  lumberman,  as  seen  in  Jimmy 

Powers  ? 

6.  Read  the  sketch  of  Stewart  Edward  White,  and  decide  which  one 

of  his  books  you  would  like  to  read. 


FLINT  AND  FIRE 

1.  What  does  the  title  mean? 

2.  How  does  the  author  strike  the  keynote  of  the  story  in  the 

opening  paragraph  ? 

3.  Where  is  the  first  hint  of  the  real  theme  of  the  story? 

4.  Point  out  some  of  the  dialect  expressions.    Why  is  dialect  used? 


332         NOTES  AND  QUESTIONS  FOR  STUDY 

5.  What  turn  of  surprise  comes  at  the  end  of  the  story?     Is  it 

probable  ? 

6.  What  characteristics  of  New  England  country  people  are  brought 

out  in  this  story?  How  does  the  author  contrast  them  with 
"city  people"? 

7.  Does  this  story  read  as  if  the  author  knew  the  scenes  she  de 

scribes?  Read  the  description  of  Niram  plowing  (page  191), 
and  point  out  touches  in  it  that  could  not  have  been  written 
by  one  who  had  always  lived  in  the  city. 

8.  Read  the  account  of  how  this  story  was  written,   (page  210). 

What  first  suggested  the  idea?  What  work  remained  after  the 
story  was  first  written?  How  did  the  author  feel  while  writ 
ing  it?  Compare  what  William  Allen  White  says  about  his 
work,  (page  75). 

9.  Other  stories  of  New  England  life  that  you  will  enjoy  reading 

are  found  in  the  following  books:  New  England  Nun,  Mary 
E.  Wilkins;  Cape  Cod  Folks,  S.  P.  McLean  Greene;  Pratt 
Portraits,  Anna  Fuller;  The  Country  Road,  Alice  Brown; 
Tales  of  New  England,  Sarah  Orne  Jewett. 


THE  ORDEAL  AT  MIT.  HOPE 

1.  This  story  contains  three  characters  who  are  typical  of  many 

colored  people,  and  as  such  are  worth  study.  Howard  Dokes- 
bury  is  the  educated  colored  man  of  the  North.  What  are 
the  chief  traits  of  this  character? 

2.  Aunt  Caroline  is  the  old-fashioned  darky  who  suggests  slavery 

days.    What  are  her  chief  characteristics? 

3.  'Lias  is  the  new  generation  of  the  Southern  negro  of  the  towns. 

What  are  his  characteristics  ? 

4.  Is  the  colored  American  given  the  same  rights  as  others?    Read 

carefully  the  opening  paragraph  of  the  story. 

5.  What  were  the  weaknesses  of  the  colored  people  of  Mt.  Hope? 

How  far  are  they  true  of  the  race?  How  were  they  overcome 
in  this  case? 

6.  There  are  two  theories  about  the  proper  solution  of  what  is 

called  "The  Negro  Problem."  One  is,  that  the  hope  of  the 
race  lies  in  industrial  training;  the  other  theory,  that  they 
should  have  higher  intellectual  training,  so  as  to  develope 
great  leaders.  Which  theory  do  you  think  Dunbar  held  ?  Why 
do  you  think  so  ? 


NOTES  AND  QUESTIONS  FOR  STUDY         333 

7.  Other  stories  dealing  with  the  life  of  the  colored  people  are: 
Free  Joe,  and  Tales  of  the  Home  Folks,  by  Joel  Chandler 
Harris ;  Polished  Ebony,  by  Octavius  R.  Cohen ;  Aunt  Amity's 
Silver  Wedding,  by  Ruth  McEnery  Stuart ;  In  Ole  Virginia,  by 
Thomas  Nelson  Page. 


ISRAEL  DRAKE 

The  Pennsylvania  State  Police  have  made  a  wonderful  record  for 
maintaining  law  and  order  in  the  rural  sections  of  the  state.  The 
history  of  this  organization  was  told  by  Katherine  Mayo  in  a  book 
called  Justice  to  All.  In  a  later  book,  The  Standard  Bearers,  she 
tells  various  incidents  which  show  how  these  men  do  their  work. 
The  book  is  not  fiction — the  story  here  told  happened  just  as  it  is 
set  down,  even  the  names  o%f  the  troopers  are  their  real  names. 

1.  Do  you  get  a  clear  picture  of  Drake  from  the  description?    Why 

are  several  pages  given  to  telling  his  past  career? 

2.  Where  does  the  real  story  begin? 

3.  Who  was  the  tramp  at  the  Carlisle  Station  ?    When  did  you  guess 

it? 

4.  What  are  the  principles  of  the  State  Police,  as  you  see  them  in 

this  story? 

5.  Why  was  such  an  organization  necessary?    Is  there  one  in  your 

state  ? 

6.  What   new   words   did   you  find   in   this   story?     Define   aura, 

primeval,  grisly. 


THE  STRUGGLES  AND  TRIUMPH  OF  ISIDRO 

In  this  story  the  author  introduces  a  number  of  unfamiliar  words, 
chiefly  of  Spanish  origin^  which  are  current  in  the  Philippines.  The 
meanings  are  given  below. 

baguio,  hurricane. 

barrio,  ward;  district. 

cardbao,  a  kind  of  buffalo,  used  as  a  work  animal. 

cabo,  head  officer. 

cibay,  a  boys'  game. 

daledale,  hurry  up ! 

de  los  Reyes,  of  the  King. 

de  la  Cruz,  of  the  cross. 

hacienda,  a  large  plantation. 


334         NOTES  AND  QUESTIONS  FOR  STUDY 

ladrones,  robbers. 

maestro,  teacher. 

nipa,  a  palm  tree  or  the  thatch  made  from  it. 

palay,  rice. 

pronto,  quickly. 

peublo,  town. 

que  barbaridad! — what  an  atrocious  thing! 

volador,  kite. 

1.  Why  does  the  story  end  with  Isidro's  crying?     What  did  this 

signify?  What  is  the  relation  of  this  to  the  beginning  of  the 
story  ? 

2.  Has  this  story  a  central  idea?    What  is  it? 

3.  This  might  be  called  a  story  of  local  color,  in  that  it  gives  in 

some  detail  the  atmosphere  of  an  unfamiliar  locality.  What  are 
the  best  descriptive  passages  in  the  story? 

4.  Judging  from  this  story,  what  are  some  of  the  difficulties  a  school 

teacher  meets  with  in  the  Philippines?  What  must  he  be  be 
sides  a  teacher? 

5.  What  other  school  stories  are  there  in  this  book?    The  pupils  in 

Emmy  Lou's  school,  (in  Louisville,  Ky.)  are  those  with  several 
generations  of  American  ancestry  behind  them ;  in  Myra  Kelly's 
story,  they  are  the  children  of  foreign  parents ;  in  this  story 
they  are  still  in  a  foreign  land — that  is,  a  land  where  they  are 
not  surrounded  by  American  influences.  The  public  school  is 
the  one  experience  that  is  common  to  them  all,  and  therefore 
the  greatest  single  force  in  bringing  them  all  to  share  in  a 
common  ideal,  to  reverence  the  great  men  of  our  country's 
history,  and  to  comprehend  the  meaning  of  democracy.  How 
does  it  do  these  things? 

THE  CITIZEN 

1.  During  the  war,  President  Wilson  delivered  an  address  at  Phila 

delphia  to  an  audience  of  men  who  had  just  been  made  citizens. 
The  quoted  passages  in  this  story  are  taken  from  this  speech. 
Read  these  passages,  and  select  the  one  which  probably  gave  the 
author  the  idea  for  this  story. 

2.  Starting  with  the  idea,  that  he  would  write  a  story  about  some 

one  who  followed  a  dream  to  America,  why  should  the  author 
choose  Russia  as  the  country  of  departure? 

3.  Having  chosen  Russia,  why  does  he  make  Ivan  a  resident  of  a 

village  far  in  the  interior?     Why  not  at  Libau? 


NOTES  AND  QUESTIONS  FOR  STUDY         335 

4.  Two  incidents  are  told  as  occurring  on  the  journey:  the  charge 

of  the  police  at  Bobrinsk,  and  the  coming  on  board  of  the 
apple  woman  at  Queenstown.  Why  was  each  of  these  intro 
duced?  What  is  the  purpose  of  telling  the  incident  on  Fifth 
Avenue  ? 

5.  What  have  you  learned  about  the  manner  in  which  this  story 

was  written?  Compare  it  with  the  account  given  by  Dorothy 
Canfield  as  to  how  she  wrote  her  story. 

6.  What  is  the  main  idea  in  this  story?    Why  do  you  think  it  was 

written  ?  Edward  Everett  Hale  wrote  a  story  called  "  A  Man 
without  a  Country."  Suggest  another  title  for  "  The  Citizen." 

7.  Has  this  story  in  any  way  changed  your  opinion  of  immigrants? 

Is  Big  Ivan  likely  to  meet  any  treatment  in  America  that  will 
change  his  opinion  of  the  country? 

8.  The  part  of  this  story  that  deals  with  Russia  affords  a  good 

example  of  the  use  of  local  color.  This  is  given  partly  through 
the  descriptions,  partly  through  the  names  of  the  villagers — 
Poborino,  Yanansk,  Dankov ;  partly  through  the  Russian  words, 
such  as  verst  (about  three  quarters  of  a  mile),  ruble  (a  coin 
worth  fifty  cents),  kopeck  (a  half  cent),  muzhik,  (a  peasant). 
How  is  local  color  given  in  the  conversations? 

9.  For  a  treatment  of  the  theme  of  this  story  in  poetry,  read  "  Scum 

o'  the  Earth,"  by  Robert  Haven  Schauffler,  in  Rittenhouse's 
Little  Book  of  Modern  Verse.  This  is  the  closing  stanza: 

"  Newcomers  all  from  the  eastern  seas, 
Help  us  incarnate  dreams  like  these. 
Forget,  and  forgive,  that  we  did  you  wrong. 
Help  us  to  father  a  nation,  strong 
In  the  comradeship  of  an  equal  birth, 
In  the  wealth  of  the  richest  bloods  of  earth." 


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